Domestic Affairs
by Therrae
Summary: In the winter of 1820, Diego's home life began to unravel. --mildly AU season 4
1. The Word 1

**Domestic Affairs**

**By Thera**

**I own nothing and make some profit. Hopefully the people who **_**do **_**will put it out on video soon. **

**The Word (1)**

Diego didn't have to pretend to be pacing the floors worriedly when his father and Felipe returned. Both the pacing and the worry were completely genuine. When Father had left the house over four hours before he'd been bleeding from a long, deep pistol graze in his arm. Even if he had taken the time to clean and cover the wound, it still might fester....and that was assuming that the bleeding had stopped, that shock hadn't set in....

As for Felipe, he was surely all right. Surely. Zorro had escorted him to within half a mile of the pueblo. The prisoners in his wagon had been securely tied, and much more afraid of what would happen if they escaped than even the hanging that awaited them under the king's justice. Diego had kept his temper well enough to stay his hand, but not his tongue. The men deserved much more suffering than a clean death would provide, and Zorro had threatened them with exactly what they deserved. They shouldn't have given Felipe any trouble.

But that had been more than two hours ago, and the trip back from the pueblo--even in the wagon--was less than an hour. So where were they? And was Felipe all right? He'd seemed to have himself well in hand when they'd parted, but that was hours ago. He had to run for his life today. He'd been menaced with swords and guns. And he'd spoken--for the first time in more than a dozen years, he'd spoken out loud.

Hours ago.

The sound of hoof beats at the gate sent Diego to the door. Juan hurried up to take the horse and wagon, and Felipe, beaming, came to the door already telling a story: Don Alejandro and the sergeant had refused to tell the alcalde that Zorro had captured the bandits.

Diego glanced over Felipe's shoulder at his father, who was following much more slowly. "What?" he said.

Felipe shook his head and began again. They wouldn't translate. Everybody in the pueblo knew that Zorro had captured the bandits, but the alcalde had publicly thanked and congratulated Felipe. It was very, very funny.

Diego didn't see the humor, but perhaps he was just tired.

Felipe looked Diego up and down and frowned as excitement gave way to concern.

Diego found he needed to swallow. "Nothing," he said. "It's nothing. Are you all right?"

The question earned him a surprised grin. Well, of course. What could be wrong? Diego at last returned Felipe's smile and drew him in for a hug.

"Well," Father said, pausing in the doorway. "He's safe and sound. No thanks at all to you. Zorro rescued him."

Felipe stiffened, and Diego patted him once and let him step back. Maybe if his father knew that Felipe was following the conversation he'd temper his criticism.

No such luck. "Did you know, Diego, that for all your peculiarities and weaknesses and apathy...I always counted how well you've raised Felipe among your virtues. You've been his family. You were patient and compassionate and--and tireless on his behalf! And today, when he was beset by murderers you wouldn't lift a finger to help him. I simply do not understand you."

Diego opened his mouth, but, naturally, there was nothing to say to this, so he forced it closed again.

Alejandro sighed. He said to Felipe, "I am sorry, my boy," turned on his heel, and stalked off.

When he slammed the door to his office, Felipe grabbed Diego's arm and shook his head wildly. What had happened?

Diego laughed miserably. "I panicked. I saw you lead them away from the house and...it completely unmanned me. I could not think of a single excuse to separate me from my father and the lancers. I wound up saying that I would wait here to guard the house in case they came back. Wait here! Father is convinced that I am a complete coward."

Felipe's eyes widened. "Sorry," he signed. "So sorry."

Diego clasped his shoulder. "Don't be. The blame is hardly yours. I couldn't do anything at all pinned down here in the house. Leading them away was a sound tactic. You were...magnificent. Then, and later, in the hay shed. The--the courage you showed today! I'm overwhelmed." He smiled wanly. "You saved my life, you know."

Felipe shook his head and shrugged off Diego's gratitude.

"I disagree. Without your warning...well, the fight might have turned out quite differently."

"You saved me," Felipe answered, shaking his head. "I knew you would."

Diego had to sigh at that. "No, you have never doubted me."

For a moment, Felipe smiled at him. Then he winced dramatically and motioned toward Alejandro's study. "What are you going to do?"

"What can I do? I can't explain this away, and anything I say will just make things worse--no, don't look so worried. My father will forgive me, eventually. He's very tolerant, really. Give him a little time."

z

Alejandro stormed into his study and rapidly downed three shots of brandy. A waste of decent liquor, but a two inch strip of flesh had been torn from his arm and it hurt like hell. It burned, it ached, it throbbed. He poured the forth shot, but sank down into a wingback chair without drinking it.

How much alcohol would it take to make him forget his Diego problem as well as his physical pain? Dear God. What was wrong with the boy?

Some days--most days--Alejandro could almost forget that there was a Diego problem at all. He didn't drink or carouse or gamble or seduce women. True, most of his hobbies were purely frivolous, but they weren't also expensive or offensive. And over the last couple of years, his involvement with the newspaper had seemed to improve things. It wasn't just an opportunity to put Diego's obscure talents to use. Publishing the _Guardian_ was a very real service to the community, and one that only Diego could provide. Alejandro had begun to hope that this tangible involvement in the problems of the pueblo would lead to other, more direct, actions.

But of all Diego's peculiar moods and embarrassing shortcomings the raw cowardice he'd shown today was by far the worst. How could he shift so quickly from reasonable and practical and stalwart ...to panicked and incoherent? On any given day it was impossible to guess if Diego would be prim and slightly eccentric or erratic and completely useless. Some days he was an excellent rider and others he didn't even have the seat to stay on the back of an elderly donkey. One day he would be kneeling in the dirt, planting and testing new varieties of seed, and the next he slept past noon and barely stirred himself from the parlor. Was he ill? Was he harboring some secret vice? Had something terrible happened to him in Madrid?

Alejandro drained the glass and put it down. Mother of God, Diego, what is wrong with you?

A brief tap preceded Felipe through the door. He hovered nervously, hands folded in front of him. Alejandro waved to an empty chair. "Sit down," he said tiredly.

Felipe sat down.

"Don't apologize for him."

Felipe shrugged, wouldn't meet his eyes.

"I do not understand my son."

Felipe signed very slowly that Diego was intelligent, patient, talented, kind....and something else Alejandro couldn't follow.

Alejandro nodded and poured another drink.

Felipe signed Diego rescuing a horse. Oh. "Yes, he saved the mare. And the foal." He'd stayed up two nights to do it, when the foreman and the blacksmith had both shaken their heads and said nothing could be done. "I haven't forgotten my son's good qualities."

And Diego had caught the woman who lied.... "What woman who lied?" Conversations with Felipe were hard enough when he was sober. And not exhausted. And not in pain.

"The woman who talked to the dead," Felipe gestured patiently: the medium. And yes, it was Diego who set up the trap for her, for all that it had been Zorro in the end who had forced Alcalde Ramone to bring her to justice.

Felipe continued that Diego had taught all of the ranch hands and servants to read.

Alejandro laughed, "Yes, I have the most literate employees in all of California. Felipe, the problem isn't that he lacks ability. The skills he lacks are equaled by the ones he has! The problem is that he--sometimes--simply fails to act. To care. To take reasonable risks. I don't know how to reach him or motivate him...." He considered another swallow of brandy, pushed the bottle away instead, and rubbed a hand across his face.

Felipe tapped his hand for attention. When Alejandro looked up, Felipe traced, "Diego loves you," slowly in the air between them.

"He will not act on my behalf," he whispered. "And now that I know he won't even act on yours...I don't know what to do with him."

Felipe spread his hands in confusion.

"My son was sixteen when he brought you home. Not even a man. And you were a small child and...in a bad way." He frowned, remembering how hopeless it had seemed at the time. "You barely ate. You couldn't communicate. You would sit and shake, some days.... But from the beginning, Diego was--it still amazes me! I'll never know how he _knew_ that you...." he sighed and shook his head. "He was patient, he was tireless, he was gentle. He cared for you when you were sick. He educated you himself. He never complained or lost his temper....For most of the first year, I kept expecting him to come to me, to say that this responsibility--this parenthood was too much for him, that he needed me to step in. He never did. Just as surely as Diego was mine, you were his."

Felipe dropped his eyes and swallowed hard.

"He was practically still a child himself, and, my God, look at what he accomplished." Alejandro stopped and waited for Felipe to look up again. "I thought for you--if not for himself or for me--he would learn to handle this ranch, to step into his place in the community. But today you were hunted by murderers, and Diego completely lost his nerve. He fell apart. And now...."

Felipe signed that Diego was a good man, he'd be all right--

"I don't know what will become of us, Felipe. There is no one else, and I'm getting old. I think...I think it may be you taking care of him, in the end."

That earned him a long, very shocked look. Then, slowly, a promise. Each sign was broad and precise. "I...will do...anything...for...Diego."

Z

Diego was in no hurry to see his father again, so he took his time making the poultice. He crushed the garlic, then ground it to paste, slowly, not stopping until it was completely smooth, though that was more than necessary. Then honey. Then a little mustard--he ground it fresh, there was no reason to hurry. Alejandro wouldn't be happy to see him.

He shouldn't dwell on his frustration. Or his embarrassment. Or anything else. It was a day to be grateful. Two assaults on the hacienda, and no casualties. The desperate men had been apprehended, so the countryside was safe for now. Felipe had spoken--

A single word, true, but it was proof that the capability was there. Now there was only the need for hard work....

Felipe had already worked so hard to recover from the tragedy of his childhood. The injuries hadn't all been physical. It had taken so long, and they had tried so hard.

So yes, today was a good day. _A good day. A triumph not only for justice but for compassion and hope as well. I should be happy for him, not sorry for myself._

Felipe came in, so slowly he was almost creeping. He sat on the bottom step and hunched forward. After a few minutes of stirring, Diego said, "So, how did your talk with my father go?"

Felipe hunched even further and shook his head.

"Oh, that badly? He isn't angry with you, is he?"

Felipe looked up and answered, "He isn't angry with me. He isn't angry with you, either. He's afraid."

"Of what?"

Felipe shook his head. "For you.... And the ranch. The future. Everything." He frowned. "You should tell him."

Diego snorted and gathered the poultice on a tray with a pile of bandages. "If you think he's afraid now, wait till his finds his helpless, cowardly son is also mad and thinks he is Zorro."

Felipe drew a Z in the air and nodded reasonably. Diego _was_ Zorro.

"Even worse. He'd be convinced I was doomed. My helpless act is very good. Diego as Zorro--what a disaster!" Diego stepped around Felipe and mounted the steps, leaving the comfortable quiet of the cave for the painful quiet of the house.

Alejandro said nothing when Diego appeared in the doorway. After long moments with no invitation, Diego said, "I know you're upset with me, but that's no reason to risk infection."

"Very well," Alejandro waved him in, and Diego set the tray on the desk and helped his father ease the torn shirt off his arm. The bandage beneath was only slightly bloodied. Diego cut it away and revealed the long, deep gash.

Diego eyed the line of uneven stitches with a frown. "This isn't Dr. Hernandez's work," he said.

"He was not in town. Victoria and Private Diaz took care of it."

Well. Victoria, at least, was competent. With the small wooden spatula he scraped half of the paste he'd made into a pottery cup and set it aside.

"That smells like the medicine you used on Dulcinea's hoof," his father said suddenly.

"Similar. But there are a few herbs that work well on humans but which horses don't tolerate." He scooped up the remaining paste and paused. "Father, this is going to sting."

"Go ahead. I'm quite drunk, Diego."

Nevertheless, Alejandro ground his teeth together as Diego troweled the paste thickly across the wound and wrapped a fresh bandage snugly around it.

"Dear God, but that reeks."

"Sadly, it will taste even worse," Diego said apologetically as he handed the shallow cup and wooden spoon to his father.

"You must be kidding."

"As salubrious within as without, I'm afraid. It's mostly garlic and honey, if that's any consolation."

Alejandro downed the paste quickly and chased it with brandy. Diego handed over the last item on the tray, a wide tankard of orange juice. "All of this, too," he said, and Alejandro took the juice in his good hand.

Diego watched him drink, gathered up the remains of his doctoring onto the tray and turned to leave. Neither of them said good night.

z

Felipe didn't undress for bed until he was sure Diego and Don Alejandro were asleep themselves. Even then, he left his door open so he could hear any movement in the house. He was afraid that Diego, restless, would ride out on Toronado. He understood the impulse, but in Diego's state of mind it was a terrible idea. Distracted, Zorro would be at a disadvantage if he stumbled across a patrol or a band of cattle rustlers or a bounty hunter. Even a riding accident wasn't impossible: Toronado was intelligent and cooperative, but not particularly gentle. You had to pay attention riding him, even someone as skilled as Diego. And in the dark--

Oh, Diego. It was so unfair. Where Felipe had trust and approval (though he could claim no special accomplishments) Diego, who was truly extraordinary, had neither. Felipe could imagine what it was like to _have_ a father and to be a disappointment to him, but he had never suffered anything like it. Diego was not Felipe's father, forced to accept him by fate and blood. Friend? Protector? Ally? Whatever was between them was by choice.

It wasn't the same.

Anyway, Diego had never shown any disappointment, never once despaired of him or rejected him, but only loved him as he was.

When Diego had learned that Felipe's hearing had returned he'd been delighted on Felipe's behalf, but the change hadn't made him suddenly more valuable or more worthy. Diego had never pushed him to speak--had hardly even discussed it--until Felipe himself had begun to complain about the limitation. And today, when a single panicked word had sprung free...it hadn't changed _anything_. Diego didn't love him more or trust him more or respect him more.

But today, because of failings that didn't even truly exist, Diego had lost his own father's trust and respect, and the love, while still there between them, was all tangled up in frustration and fear. It was so unjust, and poor Diego was already carrying the problems of the pueblo, already putting his own plans for a future and family on hold, already doing such dangerous work.

The strained relations with Don Alejandro had been a painful burden even before today. Felipe was afraid the added tension, the added distraction, might get him killed. It would only take one mistake, one misjudged leap, one poor parry, and Zorro could be wounded or caught. Or worse.

Things would get harder for Diego soon, anyway, as Felipe got older. Felipe was useful to Zorro because he was young and harmless and invisible. Easy enough when he'd been a boy, but lately he'd begun to look more and more like a man. Even with the lie they presented to the world--that Felipe could neither speak nor hear--as an adult he would be more liable to elicit suspicion. Soon, Diego might start limiting Felipe's participation and there was no one else to take up the slack.

Things were bad now and getting worse, and Felipe saw no way out of it. Without Zorro, there were only two alternatives: submit to tyranny and allow the authorities to oppress the peons to death, or engage in open revolution--which would bring mass slaughter on both sides. It was the same set of choices they had always had, and, as always, there wasn't any choice at all.

z

Diego retired as soon as he'd tended his father. He had no problem falling asleep, but he woke well before dawn with a nameless anxiety that sent him all but fleeing the bed. He couldn't settle down to read. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't thinking clearly enough to finish testing the soil samples he'd collected last week. It was too early to wake the house by playing the piano. It was too dark to paint...although in half an hour it would be dawn, and he could catch the early light if he set his ease in the garden. Of course, for that to be productive he would need a subject in mind and the desire to paint.

He was still standing indecisively in the parlor when Felipe appeared carrying a pair of fishing poles and a basket. Diego dredged up a smile. "Going fishing?"

Felipe turned the poles to emphasize that there were two of them.

"Oh. Both of us."

Felipe nodded.

Diego had no more interest in fishing than anything else this morning, but Felipe was clearly concerned and it would be ungracious to reject this attempt to cheer him up.

The sky was streaking with pink when they reached the creek. Felipe led him to a spot on the bank. Mindful of the concerned looks Felipe was casting his way, Diego baited his own hook and dropped the line in. Felipe tapped his arm, motioned him to be quiet, and pointed to a half-rotted log in the water.

Diego nodded and reset his line closer to the log.

Felipe braced his pole and signed, "While you were in Spain, I fished almost every day."

Diego nodded, watching the water lap at the bank. "You don't have as much time to fish any more."

Felipe rolled his eyes and answered that he had better things to do now.

Oh, yes, Diego thought sourly. Much better things to do now. Felipe spent his days helping a masked outlaw with a price on his head wage a private war with the local tyrant. The name of the tyrant might change, the latest outrage might change, but the position of the citizens--the powerlessness of the citizens--somehow stayed the same. Felipe was barely an adult, and already he'd sacrificed six years of his life to Diego's endless venture. Time he should have spent fishing or playing....

Felipe had sacrificed his childhood, but at least he had made the choice himself and knew what came in return for his loss. Victoria was still waiting for marriage, children of her own, and she didn't even have Zorro's honesty for compensation. As for Diego's father--what could possibly repay him for the grief caused by all this deception?

As the sun came up the breeze freshened a bit, and the line began to dip and twitch as fish came to the surface for food. For a little while the only sounds were birdsong and the soft splash the fish made as Diego and Felipe pulled them out of the water. It was calming; the wait, and the strike and the pull of the fish. Watching the line kept other, less pleasant thoughts at bay. They caught three fish each before the fish lost interest in breakfast and their lines grew still.

"Tomorrow is Sunday," Felipe signed. "We could ride to the mission later for confession."

Diego nodded, cutting some grass to line the basket so the wet fish wouldn't spoil it. "Yes, that would get me out of the house for a while. It's probably best if I avoid my father. Although I still have to re-dress that arm."

Felipe frowned. "I'm not just trying to distract you....It's been a long time. Piety is good."

"And I have a great deal to confess," Diego agreed. He wondered how, exactly, to classify his sins: Bless me father for I have sinned, I has been three weeks since my last confession. I have betrayed everyone who loves me and failed everyone who depends on me.

It sounded absurdly melodramatic.

Perhaps some of the problems could be solved. "Felipe, I--we can find a way for you to do it. To join the army. I know our secrets have held you back, but--"

Felipe signed--with the same gentle patience he'd shown all morning--that he had no idea what Diego was talking about.

"We can put it about that we are sending you away to school. Someplace special, in Mexico City or the United States. Once you're away from home--You won't have to lie anymore. You'll be free to--"

Felipe interrupted with the vehement statement that he didn't want to be a soldier. Since he had claimed the opposite just a few days before, Diego wasn't convinced.

"Felipe. It's all right to have your own dreams. You're growing up, I understand that. You want to see the world--."

"I do not--not--want to be a soldier. I don't need to see the world, I need to be a man, I need to do something important. But not--" He threw up has hands and turned away briefly. Then he came back and started again. "I see the soldiers in the garrison. They don't keep order or defend us from enemies. They collect taxes, they harass peons, they hunt a fox. I don't want that life."

"But, Felipe, you said--why did you say you wanted to enlist?"

He blew out a sharp breath and rolled his eyes. "For you." He traced a Z in the air. "Obviously. As a man in uniform, I could help you more." He threw his hands up and shook his head, apparently despairing of Diego's denseness.

Diego swallowed hard. "That was a very clever idea."

Felipe bowed graciously.

"And I completely forbid it, of course."

Felipe nodded heavily and signed, "Impossible."

"Even if it were possible--It's not what you want. Soldiers obey. They follow orders, against enemy armies and unarmed peasants alike. You couldn't do that. I wouldn't let you."

Felipe looked affronted.

"It's not a matter of ability. It's a matter of--of--of--"

Felipe raised his chin slightly and signed, "I'm soft hearted?"

Diego frowned and laid a firm hand on the back of Felipe's neck. "I would have said intelligent and compassionate. Honorable."

Felipe looked both doubtful and puzzled. "Your father was a soldier. It is honorable. Isn't it?"

Diego felt his stomach twist. "Not here," he said. "What you said before--you were right. The soldiers in the pueblo, they are as badly exploited as anyone else, but all the worse for them, as they are themselves instruments of oppression. Felipe--how does sergeant Mendoza sleep at night? How does he live with being Ignacio's errand boy?"

Felipe frowned. "He tells himself it's not so bad." Diego waited. "He tells himself he's following orders. And if it gets too bad...Zorro will fix it." He shrugged.

"Ah, yes. The dear sergeant is very fond of Zorro. How many times this year do you think he has been ordered to fire on him? Ten? A dozen?"

Felipe winced.

"And how do you think he will sleep at night if he ever succeeds in hitting me? If you choose to join the army, I will support you. But I won't let you do it here."

Slowly Felipe nodded, and Diego started to step away. A sharp tug on his sleeve stopped him. "I want to help you," Felipe signed firmly.

"Help me?--If you mean you want to take up a sword and fight beside me, the answer is no."

Angry, signing more broadly, Felipe began, "I'm good with a sword!"

Diego didn't let him present his case. "You are not good enough. And even if you had the skills, you don't have your full height yet, or the strength in your shoulders. Felipe, I was four or five years older than you when I started. You are not ready."

Sullenly, Felipe glared at the ground.

"You already help me--"

"I creep around town. I feed your horse. I want to do more for you, for the pueblo. I can do more."

Diego took a breath. "You're right. You're a man now. You have choices. You...you could help edit the newspaper, if you wanted to make a difference. A newspaper is absolutely necessary to liberty--"

"And civil society and a just government." Felipe signed. Even angry, he rolled his eyes and huffed a silent laugh.

"Perhaps I have mentioned that before," Diego conceded. Felipe had had to invent the sign for civil society, the topic came up so often. "If that doesn't suit you, you could become a doctor. Dr. Hernandez doesn't have an apprentice. You have steady hands, a very good mind, and you have to admit that you would be useful both to the community and to me."

Felipe responded that he hated blood.

"You never mentioned," Diego said.

Felipe's gesture encompassed the length of Diego's body: he meant that it was bad enough seeing Diego's blood without going looking for more.

"You could become a lawyer. The nearest now is almost a hundred miles away. Ignacio might be more careful about his schemes if he knew someone was watching who could speak for the laws of the king."

"A lawyer who can't speak!" Felipe answered bitterly.

"It's your mind and intent that matter, not your voice. We could manage if it came to that...But, oh, Felipe. I never meant you to keep living this lie for your whole life. I know, I _know_ it's already gone on too long, but I will find a way to end it."

The lie protected their lives, Felipe reminded him. A simple necessity. His eyes softened and he patted Diego's arm, adding "Don't look so sad."

"I owe you better than this, and someday, I promise you...."

Felipe smiled gently and patted his arm again before releasing him and bending to collect the basket and poles.

"Felipe, I'm quite serious."

He nodded and started back to the house.

z

The morning was half gone when Alejandro awoke. His head throbbed in counterpoint to the ache in his upper arm. He squinted against the bright light and focused on Diego's form in the doorway. He pushed himself on his good arm and nodded permission to enter.

Diego was balancing a tray against his hip. He drew a chair close to the bed and set it down. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Old, mainly, but he wasn't going to say that. "A little sore, as you would expect."

Diego nodded and pushed back the drape, flooding the room with sunlight that felt like a sword passing directly through Alejandro's forehead. Diego seated himself on the edge of the bed and gently unwound the bandage circling Alejandro's arm. "Well, it's weeping and a little swollen," he said thoughtfully. "No pus, though...and no fever. This may heal cleanly."

He produced a bowl of water and a cloth from the tray and began to sponge clean the wound. Alejandro ground his teeth and held still. Diego's hands were careful and unhurried as he first cleared away the crust and then began to pack on the pungent ointment with a small paddle.

"Tell me I don't have to eat that again, son."

He was rewarded with a very small smile. "Today, this is my prescription." He pointed to a tall glass of water still on the tray. "It will help with the headache, as well."

"You don't drink. I didn't realize you had a cure for overindulgence...."

"I was a student, Father. There skills one just...picks up." He covered the wound and a clean square of muslin and began to wrap the poultice in place.

In Santa Barbara, Tomas de la Gambon's sons were continually quarreling with each other and spending foolish amounts of money on clothing and fine carriages and drink. Only about a dozen miles away, Emmanuel Delgado's son continually complained about colonial life, publicly sympathized with revolutionaries and (Alejandro had long suspected) mistreated the household staff.

None of the young caballeros he knew were the sort who would so patiently and gently dress a wound, searching for traces of infection, preparing the medicines themselves. Usually, in fact, it was the work of women or servants. For all that Diego made a poor caballero, he was a kind and humble human being. "Thank you. You're....quite good at this, Diego."

Diego glanced up almost nervously. "It's nothing." He shied away from the unpleasantness between them by turning his attention back to his task.

Unable to bear the silence, Alejandro changed the topic. "How is Felipe this morning?"

"Hmmm. Undaunted, apparently. He doesn't seem to be dwelling on either the violence he witnessed or the danger he was in himself."

"Oh? What does he seem to be dwelling upon?"

For a long minute, it seemed Diego wouldn't answer--perhaps unwilling to share his concerns or else uninterested in his father's input. But finally he said, "Felipe is searching for the man he will become. He's trying to imagine the path he wants." For just a moment Diego looked very sad, as though he were carrying a terrible burden. "He is also quite worried about us--you and me, Father. That seems to be on his mind more than anything."

"Diego," he began tentatively, "about what happened yesterday...."

"You had every reason to be angry," Diego said formally. His eyes had become blank and calm.

There wasn't any good response to that.

"We narrowly escaped tragedy yesterday," Diego continued, glancing fleetingly at the soiled bandages. "I might have lost you both. Felipe and I are going to the mission this afternoon to offer thanks. You're welcome to join us, if you feel up to it. Although it wouldn't do you any harm to spend the afternoon resting."

Diego had always been dutiful in his piety, but not particularly zealous. For the most part. As with anything, Diego's behavior was hard to predict. "I'll let you know a little later." He paused. "Diego, if something were wrong...if you needed help with something or were facing some difficulty...?"

"There is no 'help' for my shortcomings, I fear." He pressed the glass of water into Alejandro's good hand and turned away, swiftly collecting his things.

TBC


	2. The Word 2

**I own nothing and make some profit. Hopefully the people who _do _will put it out on video soon. **

**THE WORD (2)**

Before lunch Diego went out to 'inspect' the south hay barn for damage just as though he had not already seen it. Felipe went with him.

After lunch they rode into the mission. Don Alejandro didn't accompany them, so they went on horseback instead of taking the wagon.

Diego was quiet on the way into town. There was nothing to say. However much people relied on words to *do* so much for them, when it came to things that were really important words were of no use at all.

The words that should be important--like 'afraid' and 'alone' and 'hopeless'--were empty and pale compared to the reality. They talked around the truth or covered it up. The good words like 'trust' and 'safe' and 'family' were shallow and weak, too. You could talk all day and not approach the warm reality of them.

'Love,' was actually a good word, a precious word... but the irony was that it seldom needed to be spoken. Love, if you were fortunate enough to have it ('fortunate' another weak word. Two men could duel in the street and when it was over, people referred to the dead one as 'unfortunate,' as though luck somehow conveyed the difference between life an death) was inescapable. Even if you were unaware of it or did not return it, it was no less material.

Diego loved Victoria. She did not know it, but that did not make the love less real...or what Diego did on her behalf less real.

Words, though, could destroy even love. And wasn't that perverse and unfair? Right now deception was strangling the love between Diego and his father. If it had been true--if Diego had really been better at the theory of science than the daily matters of living and had been cowardly and clumsy and physically frail as well--the old don would have managed. He would have found a solution, perhaps a wise and practical wife to lift the burdens pathetic Diego could not carry. Something.

But instead of a certainty about his son's shortcomings, Don Alejandro had confusion and frustration and a desperate urge to understand...whatever it was that made Diego so unpredictable. For a few days Diego might *almost* be his unguarded self--or at least a version of his persona that his father could live with...and then Zorro would be needed and Diego would be missing or disappointing and they would both feel torn to pieces again.

Talking couldn't solve this problem, neither in embellishing the lie (which would only split them further apart) nor in telling Don Alejandro the truth. And what a disaster that would be! The old man was powerful and forthright. He wasn't used to keeping anything inside. He couldn't watch in silence or play out a role. Any attempt to do so would fall to pieces the moment Zorro was endangered or maligned. Worse, he was not used to helplessness; he would never be able to stand by and watch his son fight a detachment of royal lancers alone. He would act, and he wasn't a young man anymore. Honesty might mend their relationship, but Alejandro wouldn't live long enough to enjoy it.

Diego could not tell his father and continue to act as Zorro, and Diego could not give Zorro up and stand by while corrupt officials preyed on peons, business owners, and ranchers alike. So no solution lay along that path.

The solution Diego would _not_ discuss was killing--either de Soto or anyone else. Felipe could understand the practical reasons for this choice: First, a change in leadership was not a guarantee of improvement. Incompetent and short-tempered Reyes had been followed by sadistic and greedy Ramone. Ramone, in his turn, had been followed by ambitious and ruthless de Soto. All of them had been vain. All of them had been arrogant. All of them had had eyes on better, more civilized postings. The next alcalde would likely be different from the others, but he might well be worse.

Secondly, right now Zorro was a folk hero to the peons and barely noticeable to the colonial authorities. If he were a murderer, all that would change. If Zorro lost the sympathies of the people and the army brought its resources to bear in hunting him, he would be captured and hung very quickly.

But Diego didn't forbear for practical reasons. He didn't _want _to kill anyone. To end any human life was to devalue all human life. To deprive anyone--even someone evil-- of life was to deny them the chance to repent their errors and strive for improvement. Who was Diego to sit judgment on a human being and bring about a final conclusion to their lives?

Secretly, Felipe thought he had every right to do so, if it meant protecting his family and community. All right, yes, de Soto was a human being. So were the people he oppressed! The farmers who lost their land because they couldn't pay their taxes, the children who went hungry, the travelers who were harassed by bandits because de Soto ignored real criminals because he was trying to control dissidents....If _he_ were choosing what human beings to protect, Felipe would protect innocent ones.

Victoria shouldn't be rallying the peasants and business owners to resist government oppression, she should be living a quiet life, raising her family. But she was waiting for Zorro....

And Don Alejandro--Felipe had paid attention during his lessons on the philosophy of local government and civil society. If Los Angeles were allowed to attend to the concerns of Los Angeles, the people could build a thriving community here. Don Alejandro had the position and the talent to help lead the district to growth and prosperity, but instead his energies were consumed by endless resistance to petty tyranny. He had been jailed...five times now? Or only four? Did house arrests count?

And Diego's own life was constantly at risk--brilliant, compassionate, talented Diego, who respected everyone, protected the helpless, educated the ignorant--How could you compare the petty, selfish greed of government officials with Diego's gifts and generosity?

Sometimes, when Zorro was late riding back from the pueblo and Felipe was alone in the silent, dim cave, he thought about poisons and duels and riding accidents. Out of respect for Diego's dislike of bloodshed he didn't think about _doing_ any of those things, but he did think about how it wouldn't be wrong. Diego believed in human rights and the law, and Diego--as Zorro, at least--had the situation in the pueblo well in hand, so the thought of murder and all the practical problems that would come with it wasn't particularly tempting. Not really.

But Felipe's objections to it weren't moral and he did wish--a sin to confess today--that Ignacio de Soto would simply have mercy on Los Angeles and fall over dead.

The mission garden was cool and pleasant after the dusty road. Two of Diego's reading students, surprised to see him on a Saturday, stepped away from their work to ask him a few quick questions. Felipe went ahead into the church. A number of people had already arrived for confession. He took a slate from the bookcase in the antechamber and seated himself in the back of the sanctuary to write out his confession. The list wasn't particularly short, but it was well known to him, so it took only a few moments. Finished, he lit a candle and took out his rosary.

When it was his turn to enter the small alcove where Padre Benitez took confession, he brought a candle with him. "Ah, good boy. The light in here is poor in the afternoon." He lifted the candle and nodded over the list. "Your usual penance, my son," he said slowly.

Felipe nodded.

The priest--normally quite cheerful--sighed. "They aren't so serious, yet some of these are becoming habits, I think. Bad habits you would do well to leave behind."

Felipe nodded, trying to look chastened, but he could not foresee giving up lying or anger or gossip or hate in the near future.

Father Benitez patted his shoulder, but before he could send Felipe away, he took back the slate, erased it quickly, and scribbled a question.

Father Benitez read the slate, glanced at Felipe, and read it again. "Why is murder a sin, but killing on the battlefield is not?" he read.

Felipe nodded.

"Oh, my child...are you thinking of the men who killed the coach driver?"

Felipe shook his head.

"For murder, they will hang. Does that concern you?"

Felipe's--rather significant--anxiety about hanging criminals had nothing to do with the men who'd robbed the stage coach and murdered the driver. He shook his head again.

Father Benitez sighed. "Diego has told me something of your past, my son. Are you perhaps weighing murder against the deaths of civilians in war?" The round little man suddenly seemed very sad. "Are you thinking of the tragedy that took your parents?"

Felipe hadn't been. He'd been thinking of Diego. _His_ enemies were content to try to kill him. They had no respect for human dignity. Diego refused to consider 'murder,' even though acts of war and self-defense were apparently permitted by God. Felipe could hardly admit this to the priest, however, so he shrugged and looked down--an evasion was as good as a lie, but he wouldn't have to confess it.

Slowly, with the corner of his habit, the good father began to erase the slate. "So much suffering in the world. War is a terrible thing, and we ask ourselves...how can a just and loving God allow so much tragedy?" He seemed as though he wanted to look away, but he kept his face resolutely toward Felipe. "It seems unfair, too, that those who 'murder' in cold blood must face the justice of man, while the very same death between two men at war is often a cause for the granting of medals."

Very, very sorry he had begun this conversation, Felipe nodded.

"Our Heavenly Father is not...careless of our loss. Even as we grieve, He grieves with us. And even as we suffer, we do not suffer alone--"

Without meaning to, Felipe surged to his feet. It wasn't God who had shown him mercy, it was Diego--

Father Benitez sadly patted his arm. Felipe's thought had come right out his hands and he didn't know how much of it had been understood. He hoped the Father wasn't insulted, if he _had_ understood the gestures.

The priest shook his head, answering calmly, "It is...Diego...who saved you, yes? Not God, I suppose? Hmmm. But surely, if we needed any evidence that God is merciful, Diego himself is proof of that."

Felipe dropped his eyes and pretended not be shocked. Obviously, Father Benitez only meant that Diego was a good man, and that Felipe had reason to know he was kind. Nothing more. He could not know anything more. _No_ one knew. All of Diego's friends saw him as intelligent but idle....

The priest tapped Felipe's arm for attention. "Fill your heart with hope and gratitude and _pray_, my son. You will find the peace you seek with God."

Felipe nodded and made a stiff retreat back to the sanctuary.

z

Diego waited until everyone else had finished before presenting himself to Jose for confession, which was just as well, since the priest wanted to have a word with him afterward. Diego confessed to wrath, which was expected, and being tempted by despair, which was not. "Surely, you have not given in to this temptation, my son," Jose murmured.

"No. No, I..." he sighed. "No."

This was going to be delicate. Hard enough to council a parishioner when he was also a close friend, but Diego would never give the specifics of his dilemmas. Jose took a deep breath. "But I suppose these last few days have been very trying? The attack upon your home, your father's injury...a member of your household targeted by murderers....I imagine all that weighs heavily upon you."

"It is not a week I would repeat," Diego conceded.

"But even when it is understandable, despair is very dangerous."

Diego's mouth quirked sourly. "Never fear. I have no intention of abandoning my responsibilities."

"Your family is depending on you--"

The sour look grew broader. "More or less," he muttered.

"And sometimes our labors seem endless. And some tasks end in failure. But, my son, the only way to assure failure is to give up, and that sin is not within you."

Diego dropped his eyes.

"Your penance is to list your blessings. In writing, if you can manage it. Five days."

"Unusual," Diego said.

Jose pretended to look stern. "You wouldn't argue, surely."

"Of course not, Father."

Jose blessed him and stepped back. "Now. If you have a few minutes, I'd like to show you something in the starting shed."

The new seedlings were doing well, and Diego caressed them gently. "A chili?" he guessed. "Where did you get it?"

"A friend in Mexico City. The fruits are very small and very strong. I'm looking forward to the crop."

Diego smiled, and for the first time his face relaxed completely. "Indeed."

"These, I have not had a chance to plant yet." Jose produced several packets of folded paper from his robe and laid three on the workbench. "These are cucumber seeds, a gift from Senora Neilson. Three varieties. And these," he added two more, "which may be the real treasure, are beets. Padre Eduardo got them for me, from the Russians up north. These are supposed to keep very well for many months. And _these_ are said to produce yellow fruit."

"Yellow beets...I don't suppose I could convince you to share a small sample?" Diego unfolded the paper and looked at the seeds with ill-concealed envy.

Jose tisked gently. "Your experimental garden is surely overflowing. You will hardly have time to look after these properly."

Diego didn't rise to the bait. "The experimental garden is now producing a substantial amount of food. We're expanding again this year."

"You have made my point," he teased, making a show of gathering up his precious packets.

"I'm not doing most of the work. Our foreman's daughter is quite the gardener. She's taken over most of the day-to-day care. And she has more talent than I...If she were a boy, I'd have her trained to be a botanist." To Jose's disappointment, Diego's smile drained away. "It seems unfair, somehow."

"What does?"

"If Martina were a boy, Father, I would send him to school in Mexico City or even New York, although learning the language might slow things down. But even if there were a college that would accept a girl, she could scarcely travel alone."

"And that seems unfair? Tell me, Diego, is she a good worker?"

He lifted a stray cucumber seed and turned it absently in his hand. "Oh, yes."

"And she uses the talent God has given her?" Jose did not wait for Diego's nod. "She has friends and family who love her and whom she loves? A solid roof and good food?"

"A substantial amount which she grows herself," Diego answered, his expression lightening a little.

"Is she fairly paid? And if there were a book of yours she wished to read, would you loan it to her? I won't ask if she has the respect of her employer, since that is obvious. I know your foreman's daughter; she is pious and good-tempered. Can you not see that this young woman already has that which most of God's children desire? There is no need for you to regret her lot."

"Well, I would add a local government sensitive to the needs of the community, freedom of speech, and adequate rain to your list...."

Jose lowered his brows sternly until Diego relented. "Your point is taken, my friend."

"Do not look for trouble. Enough finds us as it is...." It was the wrong thing to say. The small frown lines crept back to Diego's eyes and he sighed. "My son...my dear friend. Is there nothing I can do to help?"

Diego looked around. He sighed. "I do not even know how to confess it, except to say that I have done poorly by Felipe."

Jose felt his brows rise. "Felipe? Your boy? Intelligent, thoughtful, helpful, pious, brave Felipe?" He managed a cheerful little chuckle. "It seems to me you've done _very_ well by him. I dislike repeating gossip, but they say in town that--singlehanded and unarmed--he captured two murderers this week."

Diego didn't smile. "Oh, yes, very funny. But it's too near the truth. He's brave. Because of me, he's had to be, hasn't he? Someone in the house has to show some courage!"

"Diego--"

"He led them away. He rode out alone, to lead them away. Padre, if there is anyone in the world I should protect--" Diego broke off, clamping his mouth shut and looking down.

Jose studied his face, trying to determine if this truly was the worst of it, or if Diego had slid off onto another wide issue, deflecting attention from truths that were both more painful and more revealing. "They also say that you dote on the boy....coddle him and over protect him? Hmmm? Does he need so much protecting?"

"Surely there is some middle ground between over protecting him and throwing him to the wolves," Diego protested.

Jose waited. He wasn't sure what the truth of the matter was, or how to judge Diego's choices or their outcomes. Had he truly sacrificed the welfare of a child in his care? Or was he only unsettled by the danger of the last few days? If anyone knew where things truly stood, it would be Diego himself.

"Perhaps I have...."

"Lowered your expectations?" Jose suggested. "Because of his deafness?"

"Certainly not! No. I have limited his choices, I admit that. But never because I doubted his capability. He...he is carrying a great many burdens. I have...relied on him too much. Interfered with his own pursuits."

"So. You refuse to admit that you keep him close to you because you worry how he would fare without your support?"

Diego looked honestly startled. "I--of course I--I worry." He shut his mouth abruptly and slowly lowered himself to a battered stool. "Padre, you must understand, long before you came here...I found him in a battle field. There were bodies--some soldiers were gathering their dead in a cart, but the civilians and the rebels, they were just lying there. Not even dead yet, some of them. I remember one old man...." he rubbed his hands together and glanced away. "It was just me and my tutor and Jaime, one of our men. We didn't even have a carriage or any supplies. Just water to give them, for all the good that did. And this little boy, sitting by himself. He wasn't hiding or crying...."

"And when you look at Felipe, you see that little boy still," Jose suggested.

"Sometimes." A hesitant concession.

"And he will never be old enough or strong enough to carry the burdens of a man?"

"No, I don't mean--"

"He must be, oh, maybe close to twenty, now. You were about that age when you left home to face the dangers and temptations of the city by yourself, weren't you? When will Felipe be ready to assume the responsibilities of a young man? Two days ago, he did what was necessary, as all men do what is necessary. Didn't he? Or did he make the wrong choice? Execute it poorly?"

Diego shook his head. "Neither. He was magnificent."

"But in your heart, my son, you still think of him as a broken child, one for whom no remedy or effort will ever be enough. One who needs your help--and you are anxious to give it."

"I admit your point," Diego said slowly. "My father has suggested the same, more or less. But even so, I am not just imagining a problem. The ugly truth is I have trapped him, here with me, in a limited life when he deserves more--"

Jose was grateful Diego stopped there. He could well imagine _what_ trapped Felipe at Diego's side, and he did not want his suspicions confirmed. "Have you asked him what he wants?"

"He says he...wants to help me." A sigh. "He is far too loyal for his own good."

That was very nearly funny, coming from Diego de le Vega. "My son, to what are you loyal? What commitments do you keep?" Jose raised a hand to forestall an answer. "So often, our heart's desires are not our fantasies but our realities. Just as you have _chosen_ to live here, to do your life's work here, for the people you love...it is a difficult choice, I know, with many costs. But just as you have judged the worth and made your decision, so must he." Jose waited several long seconds as Diego digested this. "You can't assume he wants to follow you into your newspaper work, of course. But if he wishes to stay here, living a simple life, building and safeguarding his community, well, you can hardly feel guilty because he has chosen to follow his heart rather than ambition or temptation. You must admit it is the worthy choice, since it is the one you made yourself."

Diego tightened his jaw and nodded.

"That is what we are talking about, isn't it? You wish to send him away to school, or perhaps he wishes to marry--? And you can't spare him from the ranch just now? So he willingly stays. "

Diego visibly collected himself. "Something like that," he said quickly.

"Never mind that it is pointless to regret necessity," Jose found it in himself--somehow--to mount a stern countenance. "It is a kind of hubris to blame oneself for the choices of others."

"Of course, Father. I hadn't thought of it that way. Perhaps I should confess again." The haunted look was gone from Diego's eyes, but he only smiled blandly. Whatever he was thinking, it was not something he could share. Jose was used to that.

"I don't think that is necessary, as long as you resolve yourself to 'sin' no more. I don't give penance for errors in logic," Jose answered lightly, concealing the honest relief he felt. "Now, help yourself to some scraps of paper from the box over there, and let's see about sharing these seeds, hmmm?"

z

When Diego slipped into the dim bedroom, he found his father soundly sleeping. It was a relief, and not just because an injured man needed sleep: it took two to make an argument, and they both had to be awake.

Sighing inwardly, Diego leaned down and checked for fever. Finding none, he crept back out of the room.

Returning to the library, Diego began to slide books out of their places and stack them on the table: an anatomy, which he rarely used; three law books, though two were quite old; two books on architecture and one on engineering; a book on vineyards, although Felipe already knew quite a bit about wine-making; a book on irrigation; and five books on military strategy (a topic that was always popular with publishers). He was finishing just as Felipe came in from seeing to the horses.

Diego waved him over and motioned to the books. Felipe's brows lifted as he asked just how long today's lesson was going to be.

"It's not a lesson," Diego answered carefully. "I think it's time you started giving serious thought to...well, thinking about what you want to do. I can't promise anything quickly, and I'm sorry for that. And I can't...right now, I can't even tell you _how_ we'll make it happen. But you're old enough to have dreams of your own, explore your own gifts. And the first step...." he nodded at the books.

Felipe looked at him in puzzlement for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "Gifts?" he signed. "I have no gifts."

The statement snatched Diego's breath away. His talk with the Padre had gone a long way toward soothing his conscience and eroding the sense that Zorro had trapped not only Diego himself in an impossible paradox, but also his loved ones. He had thought, that with Felipe at least, some small progress toward freedom could be made.

Except here stood Felipe, calmly denying his own worth, his own talents. How had he come to believe this? And how had Diego let him?

Felipe's hands were moving, but Diego couldn't follow what he was saying. He blinked and shook his head. "Repeat that, please, I'm sorry," he croaked.

With slow, broad, emphatic gestures Felipe repeated, "What is wrong with you today? Pay attention! Are you ill?"

Diego sat down heavily. "No. No, I'm not ill. No," he whispered. "Felipe, what did you mean, when you said you have no gifts?"

Felipe squatted in front of him. "I am just like everyone else. You told me. I am average. You _always_ told me."

"I said you were just like everyone else, I never said you were average."

Felipe shrugged that he didn't see the difference.

Diego swallowed dryly. "But...Doesn't everyone have gifts? God has given us all talents. You as well."

Felipe smiled gently and shook his head. "Nothing special."

"You're good with horses," Diego began. He had a dressage manual around somewhere. Perhaps in the bed room?

Felipe shrugged and dismissed the words with flick of his hand: not like you.

"You write very well--"

Again, "Not like you."

"Are you comparing yourself to me? You are years younger than I."

Felipe shrugged.

Normal. Nothing special. "My God," Diego whispered miserably. "Felipe, when I said you were like everyone else, you couldn't hear. I was talking about--I only meant--"

"Being deaf didn't make me less. And you were right. I am still me now, just as I was then. And I am like everyone else." He smiled almost patronizingly and patted Diego's arm. "_You_ are gifted. Y_ou _are wonderful. I?" he shrugged and shook his head.

Diego passed a hand across his face and groaned. This conversation was beginning to make sense, now, and while it was still horrifying, it was no longer heartbreaking. He had known Felipe loved him. He had not realized Felipe had placed him quite so high on a pedestal...or that he was measuring himself against the standard he imagined his mentor set.

Felipe tapped his leg and asked if Diego were angry.

"No. Of course not. No." Diego took a deep breath. "Let's start over, shall we? This time, I'll start. You are not a chemist. Heaven knows, I have tried."

Felipe nodded, wincing slightly.

"I think you are also no theologian. Although that may reflect the failings of your teacher, rather than your own lack of aptitude."

Felipe rolled his eyes here. Diego's lack of patience with some of the current church policies was hardly news to him, although he did not generally broadcast his little heresies.

"You might have the makings of an engineer, though. I've noticed, the few things we've built...you have a good eye for plans, an intuitive grasp of form, and a good head for materials. You should think about that."

Felipe looked a little surprised, but he nodded obediently.

"Despite what you said this morning...Well, there is more to doctoring than blood. And you are intelligent, with an excellent memory. Gentle and patient--these are legitimate gifts, Felipe, don't make faces."

Felipe composed himself and nodded seriously.

"I don't know why you object to the term, you aren't so _very _humble. Surely--surely it is no surprise that I think highly of you." Diego hoped not.

Felipe flushed and looked down for a long moment before signing, "You thought the best of me, even when I was nothing."

"Is that how you remember it? Because I remember quite differently. You were very young. That is not the same as nothing. All of us start out that way, after all." Did Felipe even remember those first few days, when they had ridden to one village after another searching for someone who recognized the boy? He'd seemed almost asleep, though his eyes were open, and he ate a little when food was put in front of him. He'd made eye contact with no one and never strayed more than foot from Diego.... Had that felt like being nothing? Or had Felipe been speaking metaphorically? In any case, he'd shown amazing courage and resilience. By the time Diego had brought him home, Felipe had taken to following Diego around, imitating whatever he did and doing any task he put in front of him.

Very quickly it became clear that in a child less than half his age Diego had found the best friend he'd ever had. They'd fished in the stream, collected strange rocks out in the desert, ridden out to the ocean and played in the cold surf. And together, they'd learned to sign.

Diego's father had a pamphlet about hand-language the Indians used to communicate when they spoke different languages. Diego laid an ear of corn, a toy horse, a cup of water and a few other items on a table. Then he'd written the name of each on a strip of paper and labeled each object. Finally, he walked back and forth, making the sign for each in its turn. He had almost finished his third pass when Felipe grabbed his arm, copied the sign for horse and handed the carved wooden figure to Diego.

In two days they'd learned every sign in the thin book. The next day, Diego had set Felipe to copying out words on a slate, but it was clear that talking was a more urgent need than writing, so the day after that Diego (as always, with Felipe right behind him) rode out to the mission searching for natives who could speak with their hands.

The padre had been happy enough to approve the project, but while finding people who knew the sign language had been easy, it had taken some work to convince one that the crazy young caballero actually did want to be taught.

There had been hours spent in lessons on history and math and geography (under the strict gaze of Diego's tutor) and days harvesting grapes or bringing in the cattle (supervised by Diego's father or the vaqueros); hot siesta times spent sketching insects in the courtyard and early mornings loading up tanned hides onto the wagon for shipment. Through all of it their fingers whispered in a secret language, sharing jokes, sharing worries, poking fun. Felipe had taken the place of the brother Diego had always wanted, and been a better friend than any he'd had before. Or, for that matter, since.

Felipe sighed and sat back on his heels. "Pay attention," he signed--just as Diego used to when he caught Felipe daydreaming during their lessons. "I was no one. I had nothing. I had no one to love me. You made me eat and study. You cleaned the cuts when I fell. You came when I had nightmares."

Diego swallowed the lump in his throat. "You had no mother, and you were so young--" the words sounded almost like an apology. Diego dragged himself back to the point of this discussion. "You aren't a little boy now, and you must have dreams or desires of your own. Whatever you think you owe me, however much you love me--I meant what I said this morning. You won't have to lie forever. I will support you. But first you have to be honest with yourself about what you want and what talents you have. I got out the books to aid you in...consideration."

He rose from the chair, settled Felipe in his place, and went to the cave to get out of the way. He curried Toronado, puttered with his chemistry equipment, updated his journal, and generally tried his best not to think about anything.

TBC


	3. The Word 3

**The Word (3) **

The shadows were lengthening and it was nearly time for supper before Felipe realized what Diego was trying to give him. He closed the book on engineering and hugged it to his chest, suddenly warm and almost giddy.

A profession, one of the few things Diego could never have for himself.

It wasn't just about making a good living or using the talents God had bestowed or reaching a position of respect. Diego saw his demand that Felipe choose a profession not as an obligation or a burden, but an expression of pure freedom.

Diego was a caballero. His position was secure, his "occupation" predestined. Someday he would inherit the vast de la Vega estate, be responsible for several thousand head of cattle, a profitable vineyard, acres of farmland planted in corn and fruit trees, and all the workers who depended on de la Vega productivity for their livelihoods.

Diego easily had the intelligence to be a doctor or an engineer or a navigator. Or anything. But he had never had the luxury of choosing. Even the _Guardian_, as much as he loved it, was seen as little more than a hobby, something he would set aside someday for the serious business of running a ranch.

Diego had never complained, not about that. If he weren't so emphatic about pushing Felipe to take the issue seriously it might seem as though he had never given it any thought. But there was no question, as much as he loved his home, as much as he enjoyed riding as Zorro, even as talented as he was with art and literature and music, what he loved best of all was the chemistry set in the cave and questions of natural philosophy. Felipe wasn't sure, had their positions been reversed, how he would have found the strength to be so generous, to give a friend the freedom he could never have for himself.

He set the book aside and went to the kitchen. The cook was already laying out a tray for Don Alejandro. Felipe told her to leave something for Diego as well, but not expect him to appear for dinner. It would probably be a few hours before he settled down to eat.

In the shadowed room Don Alejandro looked both old and weary, but Felipe woke him anyway. Recovery required food as well as sleep, a lesson learned tending Diego's injuries.

Moving stiffly, Don Alejandro shifted to a chair, and Felipe slid over an ornamental table to hold the tray.

"Thank you, Felipe. Tell Maria it looks wonderful."

Felipe nodded and spread his hands to ask if the patron needed anything else.

Very firmly, he answered, "Yes. I've been thinking--" He broke off abruptly and motioned toward his arm. "All this has got me to thinking, I don't really know all that much about," he stopped again, his eyes sliding away from Felipe's face. If he hadn't known better, it would almost seem like Don Alejandro was lying, or at least hiding something. "You know where Diego keeps his medical books?" His voice was much less firm now. "I would like to look at them. I suppose I know very little about...injuries."

Felipe nodded and replied that he would bring the books when he came back for the tray.

"Perhaps I'm bored, all this time lying around," Don Alejandro added. He sounded very reasonable. And, after all, it was a perfectly reasonable request.

Felipe lit the lamp, checked the chamber pot, and left to retrieve the medical books.

The two main ones were in the cave--ponderous tomes filled with tiny words and appalling diagrams. Diego consulted them regularly, more often from curiosity than from need. Felipe had read--and re-read--the sections on infections and wounds caused by musket balls and falls and swords. All of that had been driven by need and some of it had given him nightmares.

Diego was at the desk writing when Felipe entered the cave. Felipe reminded him about dinner and explained that Don Alejandro was bored before collecting the cumbersome books. Then he paused and turned back. He didn't have a free hand, but he leaned sideways just enough to brush Diego's shoulder before continuing on his way.

z

On Sunday morning Diego found his father already up and starting breakfast in the dining room. Diego hesitated only a moment before sitting down and reaching to take the pot of chocolate from Maria. "I take it you're feeling better?"

"Well, I man can only spend so much time in bed--" He broke off, frowning. "I thought I'd go to church this morning. My Arm is still too stiff for riding, but we can take the wagon." The rest of breakfast passed in silence. Father seemed to have gotten over his anger, but he was still casting Diego strange looks. For his part, Diego was acutely conscious of the deceptions that lay between them. Anything he might say--any apology he might make for the disappointment his father must surely be feeling--would only compound the lie. He didn't have the heart.

Diego told himself he didn't dread a trip to town in the wagon with his father. And, an hour later, when they were on the way, he told himself that the silence wasn't awkward.

He'd offered a ride in the wagon to the cook and the maid and taken the reins himself so that Felipe had has hands free for conversation. Diego tried not to think about how unfair it was to put the boy--quite literally--in the middle.

"You were still reading when I went to bed last night," he said as the wagon turned onto the main road. "Are you having no luck making a decision."

Felipe smiled and shook his head. "I want to be a lawyer."

On his other side, Alejandro tapped Felipe's shoulder and said, "I didn't catch that."

Automatically, Diego translated: "He wants to be a lawyer."

He blinked in surprise. "A lawyer? Really? But that is an excellent idea."

Felipe pointed at Diego.

"It was your idea?" and oh, but Father sounded too surprised. Perhaps he knew it, because he hastened to add, "The population is growing. We could use someone to handle wills and contracts and so forth. Not to mention, the way criminal cases are handled around here. A pure disgrace." He laughed once. "Dear boy, you will have your work cut out for you!"

The rest of the short trip passed with Diego's father and Diego's student conversing excitedly about Felipe's new aspiration. Diego kept his eyes on the necks of the horses in front of him and let the discussion flow past unhindered.

Once they arrived, of course, the silence that lay between the members of the de le Vega household was buried beneath the chatter of distant neighbors who only saw one another on Sunday mornings. In its way, though, the gauntlet of greetings and well-wishing was almost as burdensome as the silence. Everyone who had not already heard about Felipe's encounters with the stagecoach bandits was alight with questions, and those who already knew the story were anxious to convey their congratulations.

Felipe, smiling uneasily, planted himself at Diego's elbow. He looked both gratified and scandalized at the attention. At one point, recovering from the Joshua Barnes' 'Yankee' praise (a clout across the shoulders that nearly knocked him over), Felipe signed an apology and added that perhaps he'd_ liked_ being invisible.

"You did earn this," Diego said, edging them toward the church. Once inside, the press of people would calm down. "You were brave. You did stand up for the community."

Felipe frowned, signing with restrained motions, "Easier to watch people when nobody watches back."

Diego patted his shoulder.

On Sundays, the De le Vegas gave the house servants the afternoon off, and on warm days brought a picnic lunch and joined the other families in the Mission orchard. Growing up, Sunday afternoons had been sheer joy, playing hoop games and climbing trees with Francisco Escalante, Jose Macias, and, before he died of measles, Don Carlos' nephew Emanuel.

Today, though, they'd left the basket at home and gone to the tavern to eat instead. The explanation was that Don Alejandro was still too stiff to sit on the ground, but, at the tavern there would be fewer people, and for Diego that was a clear attraction.

The_ main_ attraction was Victoria, of course. On Sundays she only set out a cold lunch and lemonade, but since she didn't wait on the tables or cook, she had more time to talk. Diego watched her as she circuited the room, still in her Sunday dress, laughing at something one of the lancers said. The word magnificent came to mind. So did other words that Diego absently began to arrange into a poem before he realized that there was no paper at hand.

In any case, he had a stack of poems at home he could never give her, despite the fact that he judged some of them to be quite good. Poetry was a talent of Diego, not Zorro, and Diego was not in love, not with his dear childhood friend. Their relationship was completely innocent.

Meanwhile, Alejandro was announcing--to anyone who paused to say hello--Felipe's interest in the law. Some of the older Caballeros eyed Felipe speculatively, no doubt considering the long-term usefulness of a local lawyer, particularly one whose primary allegiance would be to one of their own.

Sergeant Mendoza came over to say that the stage coach robbers were scheduled to hang on Tuesday. Diego didn't comment on the alcalde's rush to justice this time--there were too many witnesses, their own actions had further incriminated them, and Zorro himself had caught them in the process of attempting still another murder.

Don Alejandro's smile vanished. "Thank you, Sergeant. We will attend."

Stumbling a bit, Mendoza changed the subject to Felipe's heroism, and the round of congratulations resumed.

"You know, Felipe, the military recruiting officer will be here next month. We could use a clever young man like you in the ranks."

It was, actually, a generous offer. Mendoza was a little lazy and not terribly enthusiastic about some of his duties, but he wasn't an idiot, and the casualty rate at the garrison was very low. He didn't get his men killed by careless mistakes or inattention. A young man could do worse than to ally himself with a sergeant who had survived almost twenty years in the service.

Felipe politely declined: he had decided he didn't need to see the world. At Mendoza's confused look, Diego explained that Felipe had changed his mind. "He says he wants to help people fight injustice. He wants to become a lawyer."

At this point Mendoza voiced the response that everyone else in the pueblo was too polite or too awed by de le Vega influence to share. "A lawyer? But--he's deaf! He can't even talk. I mean--He can't-"

Felipe flinched only a little, but Diego felt positively sick. He put a possessive arm around Felipe's shoulders and said--something--polite and cheerful, certainly nothing threatening or scathing.

Mendoza stammered, quickly concealing his surprise, and changed the subject again. Felipe looked up at Diego, who had not stepped away, and wiggled two of his fingers like a hummingbird flying. He shook his head, nodded toward Victoria, and gave Diego a shove in her direction.

A little abashed, Diego went.

He refilled his glass from the pitcher and joined her at one of the back tables, where she was just sitting down to her own lunch.

"Hola, Diego," she said, nodding for him to sit. "How are you all doing?"

He shook his head ruefully. "I was just told to stop hovering and come bother you for a while."

She laughed. "Fortunately for me, you are not such a_ terrible_ bother." She glanced over at Felipe. "My goodness. It seems like just yesterday he was a very small boy."

"Don't remind me. Although...sometimes it seems like yesterday that _you_ were in pigtails, playing with a doll."

She shook her head at him in mock admonition, but her eyes were far away. "We don't realize, when we're young, do we?" she murmured.

"Realize what?" Diego asked, taking a sip of his lemonade.

"What we will be capable of doing when we are grown. The things we will _have_ to do when we are grown."

"No, I suppose not," he replied, not sure he understood.

"I would not have guessed I could run a tavern by myself. Or that I would want to."

"Ah," Diego said. "No. I could not have guessed....." He could not have predicted Zorro.

Victoria looked over at Felipe. "Sergeant Mendoza says you were all pinned down in the house and Felipe led them away."

"Yes, he did."

"It's amazing, what we can do if we need to."

Diego, not trusting himself to speak, nodded.

z

"I should check your arm," Diego said as they entered the house.

His father glanced away. "I'm sure it's fine."

"Nevertheless."

Alejandro nodded, and Diego collected a basin of water and fresh bandages. In Alejandro's office, he wiped the few traces of dried blood away and checked again for swelling or the smell of infection. "It's healing nicely," he said, breaking the silence.

Alejandro stared fixedly at the window. "You're very skilled at this, son." It was the stiffest, most insincere sounding compliment Diego could imagine. He answered with his own flat "Thank you," and pushed his chair back to rise.

Alejandro's good hand flashed out and stopped him. "Son. If there was something you wanted to tell me...."

Startled, Diego could only blink. "Father--your arm really is coming along very well." But this was not the answer his father wanted, and Diego stumbled to silence. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a wan smile, Diego nodded and left.

He stalked through the house, dumping the basin and rags in the kitchen, then retrieving a set of practice swords from his bedroom and Felipe from the parlor. "Change out of your Sunday clothes. We're going to practice."

They went up to the sheering shed, far enough from the house that no one would see them, enough open space so they could move freely. Felipe grinned when Diego handed him the sword, and Diego had to breathe in, trying to settle himself.

Felipe, smiling, saluted formally and settled into an opening stance. Confident. Relaxed. Delighted in an unexpected lesson.

Diego forced himself to smile back, to drag his thoughts away from his father, and to ignore his lingering uncertainty about this little experiment. He saluted. "Defend yourself."

Diego started slowly. He had no intention of breaching Felipe's defense, but he put a little strength behind each ringing strike. A dozen times in succession, Felipe turned Diego's sword neatly aside. He attempted a single foray of his own. Diego struck it down with more force than necessary and speeded up his attack.

Felipe frowned, but he didn't pause in his defense.

Diego turned, making Felipe follow him. He was working hard now. "Close your stance," Diego commanded, striking again and again. "Don't let your arm drop."

Already, Felipe was more skilled than most of the lancers stationed in Los Angeles, but Diego was determined that he not become overconfident. He continued to circle, pressing the attack. "A hanging guard, now. No, let my tip slide away. Again. Again."

Felipe was completely absorbed with the task of keeping Diego's sword point at bay as he followed the string of commands and corrections. Slightly breathless and sweaty, he met Diego's blade again and again, tossing it smoothly to one side and then another.

Diego increased both speed and force once more, pushing Felipe backward. "Watch your balance, your legs are too far apart. Better. Don't let me take any ground." Diego himself was working harder now than he had ever had to against Luis Ramone. It was time to end this. Diego lunged once, making Felipe dance to the side. In a moment he had swept the sword from the young man's hand and disarmed him. Without stepping back, Diego lowered the point of his sword to Felipe's stomach. "Yield," he said in the same tone he'd been using for instructions all afternoon.

Felipe raised his hands in surrender.

Diego didn't pull back. "Aloud."

The low sound that came from Felipe's mouth bore no similarity to "I yield," but it nearly brought tears to Diego's eyes anyway. Too tired, too caught in the habit of obeying, Felipe hadn't thought, hadn't hesitated, he had simply tried.

For a moment Felipe simply gazed at him in astonishment. Then he gulped and produced the quiet bleat again. And again. Even the third try barely sounded recognizable, but Diego dropped his sword and swept Felipe into his arms. "Yes," he whispered, "yes."

Felipe pushed his face into Diego's shoulder, muffling the sound as he said over and over--no, it wasn't "I yield," he was saying, it was "Diego."

"Yes, I hear you." Diego realized that he was nearly ready to weep.

Felipe pushed himself back and signed--awkwardly, one-handedly, since he was still clinging to Diego with one arm. "Always. You always heard me," which only made Diego's eyes burn more.

Somehow he got them both seated on a rough wooden bench in the sun. Felipe leaned back against the roof support and tilted his head up, eyes closed. Diego, resting his forearms on his knees, breathed deeply and mopped his face with his rapidly wilting handkerchief.

Felipe nudged his shoulder and raised both hands, palm up in mystification.

"How did I do it?" Diego asked. He had no idea how to answer that, and after a moment Felipe made the sign for magic. "No, of course not. I--I didn't know it would work. But it seemed to me that you...were ready. Perhaps you only needed a little help."

Felipe nodded slowly and whispered, "Diego." Already his voice was cracking with overuse.

"Yes, my friend."

They sat for a long time, until the slight breeze began to feel a little chilly. Diego rose and collected the swords. "I don't know how we'll do it," he said slowly, "Or when we can start. But if we mention to my father that you are hearing loud noises it will be all over the pueblo in a day. If your hearing 'comes back' gradually...."

Felipe's eyes snapped open. 

"Or there is a hot spring north of here...to the west. The Indians say it has healing powers." Diego swallowed. "Padre Benitez informs me that 'everyone' thinks I dote on you and coddle you terribly. No one will think anything of it if I take you looking for miracles--"

"Now that's crazy," Felipe signed flatly. "You can't _fake_ a miracle. Not even you!"

"Fake?" Diego was as surprised as Felipe seemed to be. "It wouldn't be faking anything. As far as I'm concerned, your recovery is a miracle. Felipe--" He stopped, reminding himself that Felipe really had no clear idea of the state he'd been in when Diego found him. It was not a topic either of them would benefit from dwelling upon. "It is a gift from God, and I am deeply grateful."

Felipe softened, but he still shook his head. "The secret protects us. Both of us."

"I admit, this deception has been very convenient for Zorro. But you cannot spend your whole life pretending to be someone you are not, and I won't...I won't do that to you." Bad enough he had done it to himself.

"You need me."

"And I will _still_ need you, after!" He found himself caught. Felipe's wide, brown eyes were afraid. It made Diego pause. "Felipe, the most important things between us are not these secrets. You are my best friend, my confident, my comrade. You are...all the brothers and sisters my parents couldn't give me, the sons I'd have if Zorro.... But nothing will change that. Nothing. The world will change, and we will change, but I will always--" Unable to go on, he returned the swords he was still holding to their sheaths and set them neatly aside. "You told us you wanted to be a lawyer. And I think you want to use all of your abilities to do that."

Felipe closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

"I think you want it very badly. I think you want so much from the world."

Another nod.

"Then how could I want any less for you? How could I not help you, as you have helped me?"

Felipe sniffed. Diego could see desire in his eyes now. Desperate desire--but also some of the old pain.

"You are not betraying me, by being ambitious for _yourself_. And you are certainly not cutting yourself off from me...by learning to talk to other people."

Felipe's hands flew to life. "I owe you everything. I admire you more than anyone."

Diego nodded. "Thank you. Thank you. I don't--I am not denying either your loyalty or support. But you are growing up and some things will have to change. Let's this do this together, my friend. Let's pick our moment, and make our plans. Yes?"

Felipe nodded.

It was getting late. The sun was already setting. They returned to the hacienda and sat down to a simple supper of beans and tortillas with father, who spent the meal apparently lost in thought, barely speaking, and eating only a little. Diego assumed that it was only their same old problem...or perhaps his shoulder was paining him a little...but in any case, Diego found he didn't have the strength to puzzle it out that evening.

When the meal was finished, he slipped off as quickly as he could and took Toronado out for exercise. He'd dressed as Zorro, but he wasn't looking for trouble, just some peace in the quiet darkness. He might, if the mood struck him, stop by the tavern or search the alcalde's office, but only if he was out late enough that the Pueblo had gone quiet for the night. He had nothing specific in mind.

z

Felipe was in the kitchen, the French-language chemistry book along with the Spanish commentary laid out on the large table beside Diego's notes. None of it made any sense. Lavoisier was probably some kind of madman. What did it matter what water was 'made of?' It was made of water, and the most important issue was getting enough of it where it was needed and not letting it flood where it wasn't. Hopefully, now that Diego had admitted that Felipe had no talent for chemistry, he would give up trying to lever it into his poor brain.

Tied up in the case against phlogiston, he really didn't notice Don Alejandro until the older man had tapped him on the shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Felipe. I didn't mean to startle you. I was looking for Diego?"

Felipe signed that Diego had gone to bed.

Don Alejandro frowned slightly. "Oh. Very well. Perhaps you and I might speak for a few minutes then?" He looked very serious.

Felipe nodded and followed Don Alejandro back to his office. The prospect of another very serious one-on-one conversation made chemistry look much more attractive.

Don Alejandro seated him not in the wooden chair across from the desk but in the padded chair beside it. He turned politely to face Felipe and regarded him for several seconds. "Are you all right? After these last few days?"

Felipe shrugged and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

"That's good. Good." He nodded slowly. "I hope you weren't hurt by what Sergeant Mendoza said in the tavern at lunch. He was surprised. He didn't mean anything by it."

When the _patron_ was in a mood to talk seriously he would push until he was satisfied. Felipe hoped that bluntness would satisify him. "I am a peasant," he signed very slowly (certainly he did not want to repeat this). "I have no family. I am crippled. And I want to be a lawyer?" Felipe shook his head, his eyes turning toward the ceiling.

"There was a time when I might have agreed with him....A long time ago now, I suppose. People _can_ learn."

Felipe wondered if Don Alejandro thought this was news. He nodded solemnly, hoping the conversation was over and he'd be dismissed. But no, they weren't finished. Don Alejandro sighed. "You are completely loyal to my son."

Felipe nodded. This didn't need explaining.

"If it came to a choice between the two of us, I have no illusions. You would chose Diego, and rightly so."

Felipe had no idea how to respond to this statement. It was true, of course, but the idea--the implication--that he would betray Don Alejandro or that he recognized no allegiance to him, he could hardly let that stand.

Don Alejandro raised a hand. "No. You don't need to protest. I...I strongly suspect that my son _needs_ an ally."

Felipe ignored the growing know in his belly and tried to keep his worry off his face. Wherever Don Alejandro was going with this, he _certainly_ had not guessed about Zorro. The secret was safe, as long as Felipe made no mistakes and gave it away.

"But you need to remember that I am on Diego's side, too. I love my son. I would move heaven and earth to help him, if I only knew what help he needed."

Felipe stared resolutely at the clock on the desk. He wouldn't react. He wouldn't let his worry get away from him. He would allow himself to look uncomfortable, as anyone in his position would, surely, this conversation couldn't go on forever.

"Felipe, please. I am asking you for his sake. How ill is my son?"

Felipe's jaw went slack. For a moment he felt frozen, unable even to take a breath. Then, numbly, he signed, "I don't understand."

"What ails Diego? I am quite sure you know, and for his sake, I am asking you to tell me."

Felipe froze. To deny an illness--if the denial was even believed--would only set Diego's father searching for some other explanation. But to "admit" to some health problem was not only an outright lie, but an act so cruel it made his stomach ache just to contemplate it.

"Whatever it is, he's been trying to conceal it for several years now," he continued relentlessly. "It is serious enough that he refuses to consider marriage." He paused, looking into Felipe's eyes. "The primary symptom seems to be headaches, sometimes quite debilitating. I suspect these little 'colds' he gets are also related. He recovers very quickly, but they're so frequent...."

He paused again. The silence stretched between them.

"Three years ago he was 'thrown' from the most docile horse we own, and yet he could cut cattle and leap Oak Creek when he was twelve. And he wouldn't ride to the pueblo for help two days ago. What interferes with his riding? Dizzy spells? Some kind of problem with his eyes that comes and goes?"

Unable to bear it any longer, Felipe signed, "Diego is fine."

Alejandro slammed his palm down on the desk. "Do not lie to me!"

"I can't talk about this!" He surged to his feet, signing too fast, leaving too rudely. He ran anyway. There as no salvaging this conversation. Possibly not even Diego could fix this, but since that was the only hope, he made straight for the secret door and hid himself in the cave to wait.

z

It grew late, then it grew later. Alejandro sat at his desk, a flickering candelabra beside him, turning the pages of Diego's _Manual of Diagnostics._ Many of the technical terms eluded him, and some of the theories were downright bizarre. The rest was, simply, terrifying.

Consumption. At least, thanks be to God, Diego's symptoms did not indicate that.

A tumor--if it were causing symptoms--would probably have already killed him.

An injury to the head would account for the headaches and balance or vision problems, even years after the event, apparently...but Diego's speech and memories seemed intact.

An aliment of the heart? Yes, some of the symptoms fit. And, if this was the problem, the case was not serious, since Diego showed none of the worst symptoms: fainting, breathlessness, swelling of the extremities.

Alejandro rubbed his eyes. Had he actually just had the thought that an ailment of the heart 'might not be serious?' How absurd. He was drifting toward madness....

He flipped through the pages, looking for a reference to sleep. Diego often slept half the day away, and yet frequently he was tired. He excused himself by saying he'd stayed up late reading or watching the moon or counting stars or something even more foolish...but perhaps those excuses were lies, and Diego--for some reason--_could_ not sleep. Or perhaps, some days, no amount of sleep was enough.

There were lies. Some at least, many...probably. Tonight's discussion with Felipe made that clear, if nothing else. The boy had sat there, earnest and mystified while Alejandro had pushed and pled. When his innocent façade had finally broken Felipe had been beside himself with fear and grief. He must know...everything. And he had never given anything away.

The boy could join an acting troupe. Hell, he could probably teach acting.

Alejandro only allowed himself a moment of bitterness. As repugnant as their deception was, as painful as it was to be kept in the dark....obviously they were trying to protect him. Whatever Diego was suffering, or whatever they expected the end to be, clearly they believed that it was too much for Alejandro to bear.

At least it was not consumption, thank God. And probably not his heart.

Some ill humor of the blood?

A quiet rustle of cloth made him look up. Diego was standing in the doorway. He had come silently, like a cat. Without waiting to be invited, he entered the office and took the seat across from his Alejandro. His eyes dropped to the desk, and the medical book spread out there.

Alejandro closed the book and set it aside. "Good evening, Diego," he said levelly. "Felipe said you'd already gone to bed."

"I dozed off reading, not quite the same thing." The words were calm and inflectionless and a lie. He wondered if there was any use in challenging it.

"Father, I have just had the most remarkable conversation with Felipe. He told me you believe I am concealing some serious illness from you, that I am dying."

Alejandro blinked. He should have expected this. Of course Felipe would run to his _patron._ They had no secrets from one another. The fact that he should have expected this confrontation did not make him ready for it. His words tumbled over each other as hey broke free. "Diego, I--Just tell me, please. Let me help you. Whatever you are facing--"

"My health is fine," Diego protested. The anguish in his voice belied him.

Alejandro closed his eyes. "Please, my son. Whatever the truth is, it cannot be worse than this...wondering." Even as he said it, he realized that he might be wrong, and winced.

"My health is fine. My health is, in fact, excellent. Father--"

"You are bedridden two or three times a month! Some days you have so little strength--"

"Stop! Please! Father, stop. Papa. Papa. I promise you, I am not sick."

"How can I believe that? The evidence is clear. And it is _you_ who always places such stock by evidence."

"The evidence...in this case is deceptive...in fact, deliberately so."

"I don't understand. What do you mean?"

"Father...you know I am loyal to the Crown."

The room suddenly felt a little cold. Alejandro nodded.

"I have no desire for independence. I do not hold with public disorder, and I believe revolution is a needless and tragic loss of life."

"So you've said." Ever since coming home from his uncle's funeral, nine days late and with a small child clinging behind him on the saddle.

"But any resistance against the tyranny of our local military government is an act of treason, and any successful resistance would be punishable by hanging."

"What has that to do--"

"What I've done--it hasn't just been unkind to you. In some ways, it is dishonorable. I've concealed...a great number of illegal actions."

Alejandro gaped for a moment. "What illegal actions?"

"The kind that would get you hung as my accomplice if you had any knowledge of them."

"The kind that would...you're engaged in some kind of resistance movement? Diego? _You_?"

"You see? Could anything be less likely? Diego de le Vega a secret radical?" He shook his head, suddenly casual and carefree. "How absurd. I am no threat to anyone."

Alejandro turned the idea over in his mind. Diego, whose talents came and went, whose interests waxed and waned, who was never available when things got interesting.... "But, no. Diego...you tell me you're not sick, but...you are too frail to be...." Although he hadn't been. Never, as a child. Barely sick at all, until this slow slide into 'headaches' and 'fatigue' after he'd returned from Spain.

Diego's bland smile abruptly faded. "A ruse, Papa. I'm sorry. It was meant to protect you, not hurt you."

"But--what have you been doing? I mean, I've heard nothing, seen nothing! Who--? And how--?"

"I won't tell you what I've done. Yes, you _have_ heard of much of it. It's only my involvement that is a secret. And no, I won't discuss it with you. I won't risk you're execution if I'm found out."

"But Diego--I could help you. Whatever you're doing--" It occurred to him that he didn't know what Diego was doing, or what 'resisting tyranny,' might involve. But, while he might not know his son's actions, Alejandro knew his son's values. Didn't he? Hadn't he always felt that Diego was very much his mother's son? Was it likely he would object to Diego's choices when he never disagreed with what his son wrote in the _Guardian_? "I am your father," he said at last. It was a plea.

Diego nodded. "I admit, father, that there have been days when I wished for your council. But your innocence protects me. You are quite transparent in your dealings at the pueblo, among the caballeros, with the military.... No one--looking however closely--can discern that you are hiding any covert resistance, because you are, in fact, hiding nothing."

In the silence that followed, one of the candles guttered and went out. Alejandro ignored it. "Felipe--"

"Knows far too much for his own safety," Diego nodded. "I did not...I did not intend to put him so at risk."

Yes, that made sense. Felipe stayed too close to Diego for something that took so much of his time to be concealed. And more, Felipe must have covered for Diego so many times. "You weren't asleep earlier. When he said you were."

"No," Diego conceded. "I was out."

"No one would suspect him of anything. He is...." A memory of Felipe's hands passed through his mind: I am a peasant. I have no family. I am crippled

"Conveniently invisible," Diego finished in a hard, unhappy voice.

"Two days ago, when Felipe was leading the bandits away, why did you refuse to leave the house?"

"I...had resources I could bring to bear on his behalf--But not with you and the soldiers there to witness."

Alejandro's breath caught. "You have a way to contact Zorro!" he whispered.

"I will admit to _nothing,_ Father," Diego answered. His tone was harder than Alejandro had ever heard it. "And you must forget everything I have told you."

But his mind was afire. Diego! Living some great, double life, concealing a revolution--no, not that, not war, not Diego--concealing some great, subtle undertaking, right here, under his father's very eyes! "And the reason you won't marry?" he pressed.

"I could not conceal my actions from a wife, and I will not see an innocent woman hang with me, should it come to that."

He sagged suddenly. "But you have managed to conceal them from me. You had me completely blinded, disappointed, even. Oh, Diego."

Diego didn't let him continue. "You are still disappointed. I am peculiar and ineffectual, hardly the son any man would want." His eyes held Alejandro pinned as he continued relentlessly. "Papa, I am very sorry for the worry I caused you. I never meant to bring you such grief. I never stopped to consider where all the evidence I left you was leading. This was my mistake, and I hope you can forgive me. But this discussion can go no further and you cannot think of it in the future. Nothing in your attitude or behavior can change. My life and yours--at the very least--depend upon it."

Alejandro should have been able to stand up and demand a full explanation. Diego was his son, not the other way around. But the look in his eyes (and where did _that _come from? Since when did Diego have a commanding presence?) kept Alejandro silent. Diego, who had fooled everyone.... who had, apparently, accomplished quite a bit...said that this was what was needed, and Alejandro could not find it in himself to argue..

Slowly, he got to his feet and came around the desk. He laid a hand on his son's broad shoulder. "Not ill?" he asked softly.

Diego surged to his feet and embraced him. "No, Papa. Not ill. I swear it." He laughed brokenly. "I am as healthy as a bull."

"And you did not fall from the mare?"

"I fell, but not from the mare. I struck my head rather badly, actually. But not from the mare and not on the smooth road to Monterey, I promise you."

Alejandro bit down on the urge to ask what he had been riding and on what mission.

Diego started to pull back, but Alejandro's arms wouldn't open quiet yet. "Thanks to God," he whispered.

Another of the candles went out. Diego pushed himself back. "Can you do this, Father? Will you keep my secret?"

Alejandro straightened and took a deep breath. He had to take another, but finally he could speak calmly. "What secret? Diego, what are you going on about? Look how late you've kept me, talking about nonsense." Even to himself, his voice sounded shaky, but he plowed ahead anyway. "We have to be up early tomorrow. Show some sense and get to bed." He handed over one of the remaining candles and used the other to light the way to his room. He did not look back.

TBC


	4. The Rabbit

**The Rabbit **

When Diego got to his room he found Felipe curled up in a chair, fast asleep. That was only a small improvement over an hour before, when he'd found the boy curled up in Toronados's stall. A light touch on his shoulder brought him awake. Felipe blinked in the candlelight and held out his hands entreatingly.

"No, I didn't tell him about Zorro. I told him I was doing something...." He sighed. "I probably told him too much. He may figure it out."

Felipe frowned and pointed at Diego.

"Oh. Yes. I did tell him I wasn't dying." Diego ran his fingers through his hair. "What a horrible thought. Though I can see how he drew the conclusions. I had never noticed how often I was 'sick' these days."

Felipe grimaced and shook his head.

Diego nodded miserably. "I never meant...." He sighed. "But now I may have told him too much. If he figures out I'm Zorro...."

"He won't stand by and watch you fight alone," Felipe signed.

"Well, there is nothing to be done about it now. Might as well get to bed." He caught Felipe's arm as he reached for the door. "I mean it. Go to sleep. There's nothing to be gained by worrying."

The next day Diego let himself sleep late, then spent the rest of the morning in the experimental garden with Martina. When he returned to the house his father had already left for town, which rather suited Diego. A few more hours between them could only make it easier to slide back into their accustomed roles. He brought out his paints and set about doing studies of a vine growing along the wall.

He lost himself in the simple, organic lines. In the smoothness of the paint under his brush, the worries and regrets of the last few days faded into the background.

The series of studies that he'd completed a few hours later were hardly masterpieces, but the work had been satisfying. Diego was putting away his paints when Felipe appeared to say that Diego's father had returned and brought a guest with him.

Abashedly wiping the last of the paint on his handkerchief, Diego hurried to the front of the house to greet them.

"Diego, this is Don Emilio Alonzo. He's here to examine the garrison records and transport the tax money back to Monterey. The Alcalde won't have his report ready until tomorrow, so I thought he would prefer our hospitality for the wait."

"Well, certainly we can offer better company," Diego said cheerfully. "Welcome to Los Angeles, Don Emilio."

When Felipe led their guest to his room, Alejandro stepped over to examine the small paintings that Diego was leaning against the wall to dry. "I wasn't sure about bringing Don Emilio here...but you know de Soto. He's quite attached to the tax money. It seemed to me everyone would be better off if I just removed the temptation."

Diego shook his head ruefully. "No doubt a wise precaution."

Alejandro hesitated, frowning slightly. "I wasn't certain...." he began.

Diego assumed his father meant that he was unsure what--if any--plans Diego had, and that he was worried about hindering them. "Your instincts are usually right," Diego said easily. He turned the conversation to beetroot. It was a completely normal discussion, similar to many they had over the years as they discussed the business of the ranch. As he often did these days, though, Diego continued on in minute detail long past the point that most people would have considered the issue well finished. He talked about the length of growing season and average rainfall and the growing requirements of beets until Don Alejandro looked more than a little irritated. When he was sure that his father looked reassured as well, Diego excused himself to go clean up for dinner.

It was a very pleasant evening. Don Emilio was friendly and well-spoken. His stories--recent events in Madrid, news from the colonies to the south--were usually amusing and always well told. After a meal their guest enjoyed with enthusiasm, Diego played the piano. Don Emilio seemed delighted with both the more formal pieces and the folk songs, and he was not stingy with his praise.

Diego did notice that while Alejandro brought out very good wine in honor of their guest, he drank only two glasses throughout the entire evening. Perhaps he was worried about guarding his tongue. Certainly, his stories about life in the territory were a bit more circumspect than they usually were. He did not mention local unrest, the predations of the military government, or the folk hero Zorro once.

It was another late night, but on Tuesday Diego was up early and on his way into the pueblo. He had not even looked at the articles for this week's Guardian, let alone begun the job of setting type.

The contributors had left their pages in the basket that sat under a slot in the door. He carried the thin pile of papers to the desk and spread them out: Victoria's advice column, two death notices, a marriage notice, a change to the stage coach schedule, Private Cordoba's summary of the news he'd picked up from travelers passing through the pueblo, Mendoza's report of criminal activities...not Mendoza's food column, but it was likely he hadn't had time. A couple of advertisements--and the few pesos they brought in--made up the last of the pile.

When Diego had first taken the paper, his father and Victoria had helped with the press, but they were both too busy to continue after the first couple of weeks. Felipe and Pedro, one of the mission boys, would come in the afternoon to do most of the typesetting. Or normally Felipe would be doing typesetting. Probably, Diego should have him write up his account of the coach robbery.

Quickly, he lost himself in the work.

All of Tuesday and most of Wednesday were spent on the _Guardian_. At home, it made a safe topic of conversation, the few times Don Alejandro had a moment to speak without the distraction of their houseguest.

On Thursday morning, it turned out that their houseguest, Emilio Alonzo, was not, in fact, the royal tax collector, but a famous swindler who had made off with both the pueblo's taxes and Don Alejandro's prize stallion.

The rest of Thursday was spent tracking him down. At first it had seemed almost amusing--even though Diego had had to play out his part in the search as himself and with his father, instead of much more efficiently alone as Zorro. Alonzo was a thief, but he was personable and charming and nearly as crafty as Zorro. Diego enjoyed the challenge.

Then they had discovered the Alcalde and his party of lancers trapped by a landslide, making it clear that for all his cleverness and charm, Alonzo was much more ruthless than Zorro. He obviously didn't care if the people who impeded his quest for wealth were hurt or killed.

After Diego was sent back to town to get fresh horses and reinforcements for the soldiers (a job which he'd passed along to Felipe), Zorro spent the rest of the long day tracking Alonzo across rocky hills and avoiding his particularly nasty traps. Then, after finally apprehending him, he'd had to ride back and pull Felipe out of one of those traps.

Awkwardly, Felipe's interception meant that Diego's gambit of "going for help" was not followed by the _arrival _of help, which meant more explanations and excuses were necessary.

Diego arrived at home a good four hours behind his horse, appropriately filthy, genuinely tired, and thoroughly disgusted with his domestic masquerade. Alejandro was in the corral fussing over the stallion Zorro had returned less than an hour before. His father had a good view of Diego's arrival by foot. He stared, looking more confused than appalled or worried. "Where have you been?" he sputtered.

"I got lost," Diego said sheepishly.

"You got lost," but there was no challenge in his voice, just thoughtful puzzlement. "And your horse?"

Diego sighed. "The Rabbit left a number of traps. I was...unlucky and lost my seat to one of them."

Alejandro's eyes widened slightly. "The Rabbit--You didn't try to go after him yourself," he gasped. He stopped and shook his head. "Diego, what _did_ you do?"

Diego looked at him for a moment, wishing he had a good answer, wishing his father could stop asking questions that had such deadly answers. "I took a wrong turn and got lost."

Alejandro's throat bobbed as he tried twice to swallow. "How...how like you," he said. "I imagine you'd like to clean up." He looked Diego up and down in a fair approximation of disapproval.

Inside there was one pleasant surprise: Felipe had finished cooling down Toronado and was filling a bath tub in Diego's sitting room. "You are a saint," Diego said earnestly, sitting down to take off his boots.

Felipe touched his sleeve. When Diego looked up, he signed, "I need to thank you--again!--for saving me."

Diego grinned, "Believe me, this bath pays all debts!"

Felipe was not in the mood to be teased. He shook his head and offered his empty hands helplessly.

Diego pushed a handful of lank hair out of his eyes and stretched backward, trying to ease the stiffness of a day's hard riding. "You've always been there when I needed you. There are days I couldn't do this alone--today was one of them, Felipe, and not even the worst of them. We both know you've saved my life more than once. So don't...dwell on today."

Felipe shook his head unhappily, but it wasn't disagreement. Then he frowned for a moment, took a breath, and whispered, "Thank you."

The wave of sentimentality that rose up at the sound of that soft voice was a distraction Felipe did not need, so Diego briskly said, "You're welcome," tossed his boots across the floor, and stood up. "Let me see your hands."

Wincing, Felipe stepped closer. His nails were torn and the skin abraded badly enough to show a little crusted blood from where he had tried to tear and pick at the knots securing the net Alonzo had used to bind him. The little utilitarian knife Felipe carried had been left in full view, just out of reach, on a rock. Diego ground his teeth until the impulse to curse had passed. "Spiteful," he said, "for all his charm. I'm not at all sorry I left him dangling over the ravine for the acalde to collect." He had only done it because he had been in a hurry, and he hadn't been proud of it at the time, but now it seemed quite just.

Felipe's eyes darkened. "Good," he signed. "He told me, no one would find me, and I'd starve to death."

Diego ground his teeth. "He hasn't actually killed anyone, so he will be sentenced to hard labor rather than death. I almost regret that...." Shutting his mouth on the rest of that ugly thought, Diego ducked into his bedroom for a jar of ointment and held it out. "Wash. Carefully, though I am sure it will hurt. This will help."

He waved Felipe away, stripped off the rest of the clothes he'd dragged in the dust to support the long-circuitous-walk-home fiction, climbed into the tub, and tried to forget about Zorro.

Z

_This discussion can go no further, and you cannot think of it in the future_. For the first couple of days, Alejandro had struggled to push his questions out of his mind. Today, ironically, he'd been so embarrassed at being made fool of and so furious at losing that stallion that he hadn't given his son's secrets a second thought. Carried forward by his foul temper and impatience, he'd fallen back on old habits, charging off to reclaim his property, ordering Diego along, not listening when his son questioned the trail they were following....

It wasn't until Diego had selected a thick branch and begun to lever out key stones from the rock fall that sealed in the Alcalde's party that he'd remembered that Diego was not nearly as clumsy or impractical as he seemed. And even then, when Diego had volunteered to ride into town to for replacement mounts and reinforcements for the lancers, he'd given it no special thought.

It was only when several hours passed and no reinforcements appeared that he began to wonder--although he had no clear idea exactly _what_ he was wondering....

Diego had arrived home--filthy and on foot--at sundown to find his father irritated and worried. It was impossible not to think on those questions Diego had asked him to put aside.

Plainly, Diego had not 'gotten lost,' and the statement that he'd lost his horse to one of The Rabbit's traps was...plausible, actually, if you assumed that Diego had been _pursuing _the man rather than riding in the opposite direction. But it was Zorro who caught Alonzo, not a lone caballero or some faction of young men.

Except Zorro hadn't brought Alonzo into the pueblo, or even sent him in tied to his horse. No one had seen Zorro this time but the prisoner himself, and Zorro had left him dangling from a rope over Pine Gorge. The man had been weeping when the Alcalde's party, returning on foot, had found him....

It was not like Zorro to be cruel.

It wasn't like Diego either. And Alonzo had not blamed Diego, he had been quite specific about who had captured him.

Had Diego gone to--however he did it--summon Zorro? Or had he used the opportunity to do...something else?

Life was much simpler in the days when he'd believed that Diego was absentminded and a little sickly. Now, however he looked at the pieces the puzzle refused to resolve. Alejandro lay awake in his bed, staring out the window at the thin sliver of moon until it set. When he finally fell asleep he had none of the answers he'd been asked not to seek.

TBC


	5. As ye sow

**As Ye Sow**

The next couple of months were, comparatively speaking, quiet. Except for one extraordinarily inept attempt at poisoning Zorro, Ignacio hatched no Byzantine schemes to extort money from the peasants, cheat the landowners, or capture Zorro. Which is not to say there was nothing to do: in addition to the occasional highwayman and sneak thief, the alcalde repeatedly needed to be reminded of his duties. Ignacio appeared to have lost interest not only in his nefarious pursuits, but also his honorable ones. With the embarrassment of Zorro on his record, there was no hope of promotion, and so, perhaps, no point in rousing himself to act on any problem that did not affect him directly.

But while the current alcalde was only moderately inconvenient, the sins of his predecessor resurfaced in unexpected and horrifying ways. Luis Ramone, intimidated by Zorro into abandoning one of his less subtle land-grabbing plots, had buried the evidence--unfortunately in barrels that leaked.

It didn't escape Diego that the attempt to avoid committing a crime had resulted in just as much or more damage than the original plan. The mine tailings in the barrels were terribly poisonous. Before Zorro managed to change the course of a stream, they had rendered a quarter acre of land completely barren, killed an unknown number of birds and game animals, killed two men and sickened four more.

One of the four had been Felipe, who had stopped to drink downstream of the contamination one day on the way home. At the time Diego had not identified the contaminant, had, in fact, only his guess that water was the problem at all.

Since it was hours too late to vomit up the poison, he'd dosed Felipe soundly with emetics to hurry it through the other way, all the time smiling and promising the boy that there was no chance--of course not--that Felipe could have consumed enough to kill him.

Father in heaven.

The purge--and it was reassuring that Felipe had so much energy to complain about Diego's methods--was followed by lots of clean water and soft clay, to absorb and dilute any of the poison that hadn't come out. By late afternoon, he was sleeping peacefully, Diego had offered to pay Martina's little brother ten centavos a head for all the live mice he could catch in the barn, and Zorro was on his way to the Carbejal ranch to collect a sample of their water.

By eleven the next morning Diego had two dead mice; four test tubes marked "definitely sulfur," "definitely lead," "definitely zinc," and "probably arsenic;" and a pot full of tea to help Felipe with the lingering headache he denied was inconveniencing him.

Since there were no lead mines upstream of either the Carbejal ranch or Oak Creek, this left a new mystery in place of the old one, but since he wouldn't have a chance to investigate further until after dark, Diego returned to the house and went to bed. When he met his father at dinner, he didn't mention the deaths or the mystery or Diego's own activities, but only asked how Felipe was doing.

Short discussions with a couple of mine owners and Sergeant Mendoza--when necessary at the point of a very polite sword--quickly led Zorro to where Luis Ramon had buried the evidence of his abandoned plan for land fraud--on what had later become Carbejal land, very nearly in sight of the house, upstream of Oak Creek.

He reminded himself that it was useless to hate a dead man, and got to work. Once Zorro had diverted the water from the area, Diego had very publicly investigated the facts of the case and published the full account in the _Guardian_, including a 'statement' from Zorro. It wasn't very satisfying, but Ramone was dead, and the only vengeance Diego could get was to drag his name through the (evil, poisonous, polluted) mud he'd created.

The personal side of Diego's life was much more satisfying. Things reached a head with Victoria as both of them nearly broke with the tension between what they both wanted and what they knew was safe and wise...and while Diego was only frustrated and exhausted with yearning, Victoria, who was far too unconcerned about the risks involved, was impatient and angry. The compromise Diego settled on--well, it was not _enough_, certainly. But it was wonderful. Zorro proposed and she accepted and they both had that wonderful hope to carry in their hearts.

Not nearly as dramatic (but still much appreciated) was the truce Diego seemed to have reached with his father, who stopped mentioning marriage, only occasionally berated him for not being aggressive enough, and even started playing the piano with him again. The old don also spent a great deal of time with Felipe, taking him on inspections, purchasing trips, and visits with the neighbors.

Felipe commented on it one evening in the cave. The new microscope had arrived. While Diego carefully assembled it at the worktable, Felipe sat at the desk reading--still haltingly and far too quietly--the Bible. It was the same lesson Diego had used that afternoon for his class at the mission. "'You see that a person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone. In the same way, was not even Ra...Ra...Rahab the prostitute considered righteous for what she did when...when she gave lodging to the spies and sent them off in a different direction? As the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without deeds'--Diego?"

"Hmmm?" he answered absently, trying to hold the lamp so he could see how the positioning arm was supposed to attach. It was a very good microscope--it magnified two hundred and fifty times, almost double what Diego had had before. It had cost an embarrassing amount of money, and if he broke it--

"Diego," Felipe repeated, more loudly.

"Oh. I'm sorry. Continue. You were doing fine."

That earned him an impatient look. "I was thinking--" he stopped, slid back so he had room to move and continued with his hands, "Is your father punishing you by spending so much time with me?"

"Punishing me?" he repeated. "Of course not."

Felipe looked unconvinced. The corners of his mouth turned down.

"No," Diego repeated firmly. "If my father wanted to punish me, he wouldn't be subtle or cruel about it. And he would hardly be so patient as to extend it out over a period of weeks. And he certainly would not use an innocent as his tool."

Felipe conceded that, but he was still puzzled. "Then what?"

"I still don't know what he thinks I'm doing," Diego said thoughtfully. "Perhaps he's drawn the conclusion that I'm a dangerous influence and he's trying to ease you out of my orbit?"

"Not likely," Felipe signed.

"No, not very. He may have given up on me entirely. He's involving you in the day to day business of running the estate, hoping you will learn enough to do what I, apparently, cannot."

Felipe looked appalled. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't be. It doesn't do any harm. It might even be good for you both."

"What about you?" he asked sadly.

"What about me? I have neither the time nor the inclination to spend as much time on managing the estate as my father would wish. As long as you have time for your studies and don't object, I'm perfectly content with to see the two of you spend some time together. It demonstrates a great deal of faith in you, and I can hardly disapprove of that."

Felipe looked away with a frown that signaled that, while he didn't concede the point, he was done arguing.

Diego wasn't sure letting it go was the right thing to do. "Why do you disagree?"

Felipe shrugged. He reached for the Bible and began to search for his place.

Diego went to him, put the Bible aside, and seated himself on the corner of the desk. "Felipe, if my father has done or said something...."

Felipe flinched and looked at the floor; an old habit for avoiding a topic he didn't like.

Diego swallowed. "I promise you can tell me. He is my father, and I love him and I will forgive him. But I know...he can be...difficult....And if he has upset you...." Diego probably knew better than anyone, how hard his father could be.

"Long time ago," Felipe signed. "It's not important."

Diego waited.

Felipe shifted nervously, about to answer, and then stilled, his hands limp in his lap.

"Please," Diego whispered. "Whatever this is...tell me."

"While you were gone, I fell."

"Yesterday?" Diego asked, horrified. "While I was in San Pedro?"

Felipe knotted his hands together in his lap. "No, Spain," he whispered.

"When I was in Spain--?" That was six or seven years ago now....

Slowly, he began signing again. "We were bringing a mare home. There was a ground falling."

"An earthquake?" Diego asked.

Felipe shook his head, lowered his hands, and said, "A rockslide. We were bringing a new mare home, your father, Juan, and me. And there was a rockslide. I couldn't...hear it. The horses spooked. I was thrown."

He stopped. Diego, needing to do something, went and poured him a cup of water from the pitcher on the worktable. "Go on. You were hurt?"

"My head. Dizzy. Trouble seeing." He clutched his stomach and mouth and shuddered graphically.

Diego remembered the first time he had well and truly knocked his head. It had been absolute hell. The first night especially, which he'd spent on a rocky outcrop about thirty feet down Perdito Canyon, blinded by pain, his head in Felipe's lap, drifting in out of consciousness....

Once he'd recovered, he'd marveled at the boy's courage and patience that night. There had been blood and vomiting, and Felipe had flinched at neither. Without fuss he'd done what was necessary and then gone on to hide them both from the soldiers who had come to collect Zorro's body.

"Bad then. But why wasn't I told?"

Felipe pressed his lips together and answered, "Gone," with his hands.

"I received a letter every few months!" He tried to tease. "Hmmm? Perhaps you've heard of the royal mail?"

"How...how could we write you? By the time the letter arrived, I would be either dead or recovered," he said aloud. "And then I was better, but Ramone had just been assigned to the garrison. Everyone was afraid and angry, and then your father was sending for you, and then you were traveling...."

Diego frowned. "I see. And the fact that you had been badly hurt slipped everyone's mind." Felipe flinched, and Diego swallowed his anger. "Forgive me. Forgive me. Please, go on. Tell me the rest."

"There was this...." he fumbled for a word, gesturing vaguely with hands before settling on "noise in my head. I kept asking," here he signed, "What is the big thing?" and shook his head ruefully, "And scared everyone, because they had no idea what I was talking about and I couldn't explain. I suppose they thought I was mad. So I stopped asking...." he fell silent again. Diego forced himself to wait. "Sometimes I couldn't sleep, it was so loud. And then it changed. Loud and soft and," he struggled for a moment and signed, "Chaos."

Diego swallowed. "That must have been very frightening."

"I suppose....I'd forgotten a lot. It took...a long time for me to realize I was hearing noises along with the roaring. And then the roaring went away, but I still couldn't tell what people were saying if I couldn't see them talk."

"I'm so sorry. I should have been here. Felipe--"

He was interrupted. "One day I was in the house, doing my lessons, and your father was with Don Carlos in the courtyard. Visiting, you understand. And they were talking about you coming home. I was trying to listen...." He broke off and took a gulp of the water.

Diego could hardly admonish him for eavesdropping when Zorro had actively encouraged the habit. He waited with as much patience and encouragement as he could convey.

"He said--your father said I still wasn't acting normally and it worried him because he didn't know what he'd say to you if I was still ill when you returned."

Diego nodded.

"And Don Carlos said that everyone knew you were quite fond of your little pet."

Diego winced. "An unfortunate choice of words, but Don Carlos was never known for prudence." Don Carlos was dead, so, sadly, he'd have no opportunity to grow wiser.

Felipe's hands twisted together. "Your father said that you had managed quite a miracle in me. That...he was appalled when you first brought me back with you. He'd thought...the little war orphan was already ruined, he'd never think properly, or function normally. That in your place, he'd have given him to the mission, perhaps with a donation for...my care." The last word was barely audible.

Diego lifted one of Felipe's hands and held it tightly. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to rage. He managed not to do either: Felipe had been carrying this inside for far too long. It was time to let it out, and as hard as it was to hear, Diego had to listen to it.

"But--he said--you had been right all along. I _could_ communicate. I could learn. I was literate. I did sums quickly. A hard worker and polite...and it was a terrible shame that I was deaf and dumb because otherwise I might become quite a man." His eyes were shining, but the tears didn't fall. "He said I was a tragedy."

Diego couldn't stop himself from leaning down and gathering Felipe into his arms. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry. I knew you weren't close before I left. I knew he could be a bit impatient or patronizing....Felipe, I never would have left you here if I'd known." Diego's own eyes were burning now.

"He was always kind. He has never mistreated me." He pulled free. "Diego, don't think--he was never cruel."

"Are you telling me the truth? Of course you are. You have never lied to me." Diego closed his eyes. Kind. The man who saw no value in you was at least kind. "Shall I be grateful that it wasn't as bad as it could have been then? That _my_ father--who taught me compassion and respect for mankind--that he would say this, that he would_ think_ this...."

"Your father is a good man," Felipe caught himself signing, took a breath, and began again out loud. "He takes care of his people. He is brave and strong and kind. He's admitted he was wrong. About me. Not everyone would do that."

"And so you have forgiven him," Diego said.

"I owe him everything. He let you keep me. He was very kind when you were gone."

Kind. That word again. "But you didn't tell him you could hear."

Felipe sagged. "I was...confused. So I didn't. And then _you_ were home, and everything changed." Felipe finished the water, brushed a weary hand over his eyes, gathered himself, and continued, "We did grow closer while you were gone. We missed you so badly, and we only had each other. But...I didn't _feel_ like a tragedy. I didn't know he thought that until I heard him." The tears over ran his eyes then, and his throat seized up so badly the only sound that would come was a frightening squeal. Crying, gripping he arms of the chair so hard his hands were white, Felipe tried to say something, but he had no control, and his voice's failure was making him even more upset.

Diego gently pulled him against his shoulder. "Relax. Just relax. It'll come. We have time. Just relax."

"He said it. He said it," Felipe managed at last. His voice cracked horribly, but Diego understood. "I thought we were friends, or at least that he liked me a little and I could trust him...but he didn't...he didn't believe in me. Not even a little."

Diego held Felipe until he grew still. By then his own tears had nearly dried and were making his face itch. He sat back, pulled out a handkerchief, used one corner himself and then offered the rest to Felipe. Felipe actually laughed once, and then shook his head and produced a handkerchief of his own.

"He doesn't feel that way any more." Diego wiped his eyes again. "For the last two or three years, he's been nagging me to...cut the apron strings. I keep you too close, shelter you too much, limit your horizons. He says I'm doing you no service by keeping you so dependent...."

Felipe's eyes widened. Most of this argument had been kept from him. "You don't! How could he think you _limit_ me?"

Diego sighed. "I do, actually. He just doesn't realize that it isn't because I'm protecting you, but the other way around."

"Not again! Not again....You have to--you have to stop saying that. If what Zorro does is worth what _you_ are sacrificing, the risks _you_ take, then--" His voice gave way again, and Felipe covered his face with both hands and breathed shakily. "I'm so t-tired of this fight. I love you. You mean more than anything. P-please, Diego."

Diego rubbed Felipe's shoulder, trying to sooth him a little. "I know. I'm sorry. I can't help it. I'm just afraid that twenty years from now you'll look back and regret all of this."

"Regret what? Being part of the best thing to ever happen to the Territory?"

"I hope you'll still feel that way."

"Don't be an idiot." It was the first time he had ever said the words out loud, and as soon as they were out of his mouth his eyes widened in horror. Diego laughed.

Felipe shoved him gently. Diego shoved back. Felipe made a tired grab for his torso, and somehow sent the Bible and the empty cup flying off onto the floor.

As Diego retrieved them he said, "It isn't very late yet. Let's go up to the parlor. I'll play the piano and you can 'read.' Hmmm? We could both use something uplifting."

"Beethoven?"

Diego reached out and mussed Felipe's hair. "All right. Yes. Anything you like."


	6. My Word is my Bond

**My Word is My Bond**

It was almost ironic. Back in the beginning, learning to spell had seemed a kind of absurd joke. Felipe had only learned a few of his letters before he'd lost his hearing, and without spoken words to link sound and symbol, spelling had only been endless rounds of rote memorization.

Perhaps overcoming tedium was a skill one could learn, because Felipe was by far a better compositor than either Diego or Pedro: Pedro had to watch his fingers and Diego tended to daydream.

This was not to say that typesetting wasn't usually a little boring. The current story--a wildly inaccurate account of the arrest of the infamous Esteban Brothers by the stalwart lancers--was much less interesting than the truth. It was even less interesting than the list of people late on their taxes that de Soto had ordered Diego to include on page 3.

Felipe hesitated only a moment. Then he swept out the last three sentences and began again. In ten minutes he was finished with the page. He nudged Pedro and nodded toward the plate. Pedro frowned down at it for a moment; although he read backwards quickly, it took a moment to reach Felipe's changes. When his head snapped up in shock, Felipe motioned him to silence, took the plate over to the press and ran a test sheet for Diego.

Pedro studiously bent over his own plate as Felipe handed the paper over. Diego put aside the editorial he was working on and read over the proof, nodding slowly. The only sign that he had reached Felipe's 'improvement' was a slight choking sound. After another minute, Diego cleared his throat and read aloud: "After a brief discussion of the weather, the Brothers Esteban walked out of the tavern and politely surrendered. According to one witness account, "It was clearly because the alcalde is so ugly. He has a large nose, beedy eyes,' you have misspelled beady, Felipe, 'and his ears stick out. Also, his hair is prematurely grey, which makes him look old.' Felipe, I am astonished at you! Still making spelling errors."

Pedro fell over laughing, nearly taking a tray of capital letters with him.

"Not me," Felipe gestured, slapping his chest with both hands. "The error was in your original."

"Stop making excuses and get to work. Fix the page and set it up for the usual run."

Felipe pulled the plate and glanced at Diego out of the corner of his eye. How far would he take it? Surely, he wouldn't let Felipe actually print this?

Diego appeared to have gone back to his work on the editorial.

Felipe slapped the table. "You're bluffing," he signed, when Diego looked up.

Diego began to laugh. The only reason he didn't join Pedro on the floor was that he was already sitting down. "Yes, I'm kidding. I have no desire to see us all hung for libel."

"It's not libel if it's true," Pedro muttered. This was one of Diego's favorite sayings in the newspaper office.

"Ugly is a matter of opinion, not a verifiable fact. And in any case, libel would probably take a back seat to sedition." Still chuckling, he took the proof from Felipe and tore it into a dozen pieces. "The mail should be in by now. I should go see if the ink arrived. I don't suppose you'd mind putting aside your career in comedic fiction and set the page as I wrote it?"

Felipe grinned and nodded.

Reversing the process of putting the type in place, Felipe cleared the altered text and reset the plate with the story Diego had written. He was only about a fourth finished when he heard the muffled sound of yelling somewhere outside. He ignored it. Whatever the excitement was, it couldn't be Zorro, and Felipe wasn't supposed to hear it anyway.

A terrified scream, muted by the thick adobe walls, sounded outside, and Pedro grabbed Felipe by the arm and hauled him out into the narrow hallway. The little room Diego rented for the press was at the back of the tailor's shop, and Pedro was heading for the front where they could see the plaza from the window.

The window was taken up by a group of customers and the shop's owner was blocking the door, so it was a moment before Felipe could wiggle around and get a look himself. He saw people running, and an upended cart...and then he saw a huge bull charging past the fountain.

Felipe wondered if page three would do for this, or if he'd have to reset page two.

The bull narrowly missed an old man who was scrambling out of the way and changed direction, still running wildly. Felipe reached past Senor Vasquez, the shop owner, and grabbed the arm of a young woman standing outside, yanking her into the shop. If anyone else had been within reach, he'd have caught them, too.

The bull charged a vaquero and tossed him high in the air. "My God!" Senor Vasquez murmured, crossing himself.

Diego stepped in front of the bull. He was armed with a broom. The bull didn't stop. Diego stepped neatly out of the way, clouting the animal across the skull as it passed him. Stumbling more from rage than from pain, surely, the beast turned around--away from a fruit cart and a pottery stall--twisting its head, trying to reach Diego with its horns.

Diego was fast. The bull missed him again, and this time he caught it under the chin.

Suddenly the plaza seemed to be full of vaqueros, half of them mounted, all of them spinning ropes. The bull, occupied with Diego, made no attempt escape them until it was too late. One rope and then another dropped into place. Felipe lost sight first of Diego then of the bull, but the roar of the animal's rage told him where they must be. He took a step outside the door, but Senor Vasquez caught his arm.

When the bull was finally overpowered and contained by the men, Felipe scanned the thinning crowd for Diego.

He was down.

He was lying on his back in the plaza, not far from the main gate of the garrison, and he was making no move to rise.

Panicking, Felipe twisted free and ran, throwing himself down in the dust at Diego's side.

Diego reached for him at once. "I'm all right. I'm fine, Felipe. Nothing to worry about." He smiled tightly, patted Felipe's shoulder, and started to push himself up. His face went as white as newsprint and he gave a short, choked whimper of pain. It was the most frightening sound Felipe had ever heard him make.

Victoria dropped down on Diego's other side and firmly pinned his shoulder with her hand. "Do not move, Diego. Your leg is broken. You must hold still."

"No," Diego gasped hoarsely. "No, it can't be."

"Of course it can be! I am looking at it now, and I am quite sure it should not bend like that. Hold still." Still holding Diego to the ground, she turned and began calling out names and giving orders: someone to get the doctor, someone to ride to the de le Vega hacienda for Don Alejandro, someone to bring blankets from the tavern to make a sling.

Diego was soaked in sweat, his mustache standing out like an exclamation point printed on his paper-pale face. Felipe signed a promise that everything would be all right and then took one of Diego's hands. Diego, gritting his teeth to keep back another cry of pain, didn't answer.

Victoria, finished executing her strategy, turned back to Diego. She brushed the sweaty hair out of his eyes. "It will be all right, Diego. Just be still for now."

Diego reached for her hand. Victoria winced at the strength of his grip, but didn't complain. "Try to relax. Everything will be all right."

"Just my luck...eh, Victoria?" Diego panted.

"Dear Diego," she chided gently. "I think that was the most foolish thing I've ever seen you do, and I was there when you fought Miles Thackery."

Diego managed to laugh weakly. His eyes were on Victoria's face. "Sorry, sorry."

"It was very brave," she whispered.

"Victoria," he whispered, his eyes drifting and unfocused.

Felipe gently slapped his shoulder and--one handed--signed, "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

Diego struggled to steady his eyes on Felipe's face.

"Pay attention!" Felipe responded, nudging his shoulder. "Where else are you hurt?" He didn't see any blood, but while that was a good sign, it wasn't always enough.

"Just my leg," Diego whispered. "I'm all right. Just my leg...."

Some men made a sling with blankets and carried Diego into the dim interior of Victoria's tavern. Victoria saw him settled on a mattress on the floor, with pillows supporting both his head and his twisted leg and produced a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar. Normally she didn't serve hard spirits: drunken customers were more trouble than they were worth. She poured a small glass and crouched down beside Diego's head. "The doctor will be here soon. Right now he is tending the man who was tossed in the plaza, but when he finishes..." she sighed. "He will have to set the leg. You will need this."

Diego nodded his permission, and she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips. Slowly, awkwardly, Diego managed to empty it. She gently lowered his head and reached for the bottle again.

"No," Diego gasped. "Enough."

"I know you do not drink," she teased gently, "but I think saving the plaza from a raging bull counts as a special occasion."

"No more," he groaned.

"Diego," her calm demeanor wavered. "Diego, it is going to hurt. Please."

"No...Felipe...please...." Diego had no reasonable excuse to refuse, but he didn't dare intoxicate himself, not when the spirits might loosen his tongue.

Felipe patted his shoulder to show he understood and--regretfully--signed to Victoria that Diego would become ill if he drank too much.

Doctor Hernandez arrived not long after that. Cheerful and efficient, he explained that the other injured man had a broken arm, some cracked ribs, and a mass of cuts and bruises, but no broken neck, so it looked to be a good day. He tisked and set about cutting away Diego's boot and removing his trousers.

Setting the bone was every bit is awful as Victoria and Felipe had feared. Felipe sat at Diego's head and held his shoulders. Victoria sat beside him and held his hands. Diego locked his gaze on Victoria's eyes and locked his teeth on an agonized scream as the bone was hauled back into place.

Diego's father arrived as the doctor was securing the splints in place. He stalked into the tavern, surprisingly quiet. Felipe wasn't reassured by the lack of bellowing as the old man gracefully dropped to one knee and peered into his son's face. "Diego?" he whispered.

Diego opened his eyes and un-clinched his teeth enough to answer, "Oh, hello, Father."

The muscles along Don Alejandro's cheek twitched. "How badly is he injured?" he snapped.

"Oh, it's a nice, clean break," Dr. Hernandez said cheerfully. "In a couple of months he'll be as good as new."

Don Alejandro nodded stiffly, and then turned to Victoria. "And may I ask what my son is doing lying on the floor of your tavern."

Unfazed by his anger, she answered mildly, "If we had carried him upstairs to a bed, we would have had to carry him back down again when you came to take him home. That seemed unkind, and given that we are somewhat fond of him...." She shrugged and winked at Diego. He tried to smile back.

Thwarted by the reasonable answer, Diego's father turned on the doctor again. "I was told that he was attacked by a bull in the plaza. Whose bull?"

Felipe tapped him sharply on the shoulder and shook a single finger back and forth in firm denial. He let go of Diego's shoulder in order to slowly and distinctly sign, "The bull did not attack him. He attacked the bull."

"_He _attacked the bull?" Don Alejandro snarled. "Don't be absurd!"

"'Attacked' is such a strong word," Diego said weakly, downplaying the truly astonishing confrontation in the plaza. "I was trying to distract it and bring it into the open so the vaqueros could get it under control." He winced at something the doctor was doing and continued, "I thought I did rather well, actually."

"Mother of God, Diego, what were you thinking? Have you lost your mind?" The words were harsh, but they were delivered in such a stricken whisper that Victoria looked away and Diego actually apologized: "I'm sorry, Father. I thought I could get out of the way."

"And I think you would have," Victoria said, in the same kind, patient voice she'd used with Diego all morning, "if that panicked chicken hadn't tripped you."

Don Alejandro actually perked up at the prospect of someone to be mad at. "Who?" he demanded.

"No, Father," Diego said miserably, "It was an actual chicken. A completely ignominious accident."

Don Alejandro barked a startled laugh. Or perhaps, no, it wasn't a laugh. He clapped a hand over his mouth and froze, his eyes full of a fear Felipe understood completely. Then, slowly, he composed himself and patted Diego on the shoulder. "Well. Quite a day, I would say. How soon before you'll be finished so we can get this hero home to bed?"

"Just a few more minutes, Don Alejandro. I assume you have some men coming with a wagon."

While the others were focused on the doctor's instructions for the care of their temporary invalid, Diego caught Felipe's gaze and winked reassuringly. Felipe thought that it was Diego who had earned the reassurance, so he rolled his eyes and signed that Diego would never be allowed to live this down.

z

Zorro got a two-month vacation. Diego's lasted half that long: for the first four weeks, Felipe and Padre Benitez edited the _Guardian_, and, restricted to his room, Diego was also relieved of his duties on the ranch.

He spent the time reading fiction and writing poetry until he started to feel his muscles weaken and had to send Felipe to go find heavy things for him to lift. The sort of exercise one could get in bed was incredibly tedious, and by the time he was allowed to make brief forays to the rest of the house on crutches, this new freedom--even as limited as it was--seemed precious indeed.

Five weeks after the bull injured him, Diego graduated to a much smaller splint and was permitted to walk with a cane. Don Alejandro planned a small dinner party to celebrate. Diego spent a lot of time playing the piano. He learned to paint sitting down. He painted a picture of his father. He painted Felipe earnestly studying. He painted two pictures of Toronado. And then he painted nine pictures of Victoria: he painted her with flowers, he painted her in her Sunday dress, he painted her in the tavern, he painted her in moonlight. Then he ran out of paint and he wrote a few dozen editorials for the Guardian (more than he could possibly use in the next four months).

The only interruption to Zorro's enforced hiatus came when Victoria decided to try to capture a suspected horse thief by herself. Felipe had scolded only a little--mostly because Diego had been very obedient to the doctor's restrictions so far, but partly because Diego made a promise to stay in the saddle and then didn't confess he'd been unable to--quite--keep it.

As it turned out, Zorro and Victoria managed to capture three horse thieves, retrieve a baker's dozen of horses, and rescue an entire kidnapped family. Racing ahead, Diego changed clothes and took a wagon into town so he could play the role of concerned friend, anxiously waiting for the search parties. By the time Victoria and her charges arrived, the healing leg was so abused that every step was a steel spike through the bone. At the same time, the 'good' leg was so overworked that it had begun to shake. It was difficult to judge the right level of concern, mild disapproval, and amusement to convey at Victoria's triumphant return when most of his attention was concentrating on concealing his pain and the irritability that accompanied it.

The distraction of Victoria was helpful here. She was luminous--delighted to be vindicated about the innocence of Jose before the alcalde and so proud of her part in the real criminals' capture.

When he hopped out of the wagon at home, his 'good' leg seized up and gave way. Diego would have fallen on his face if Felipe hadn't shoved him backward and pinned him upright against the wagon box. Panting, Diego murmured, "It's all right. I just need a moment." He looked around anxiously, but Alejandro had immediately rushed off to inspect the returned horses. He hadn't seen the near fall.

Between Felipe's strong shoulder and his cane, Diego managed to make it as far as the library before half-tumbling into a chair. Felipe, glaring, elevated both Diego's feet on a stool and rushed off to fetch some willowbark tea.

Diego closed his eyes and kneaded the quivering muscle. Zorro was badly out of shape. He'd been lucky today--no, worse. He'd been saved by the person he'd raced off to rescue. He had a lot of work to do.

Felipe returned with the tea. "What else can I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just let me rest a little. Here, sit down."

Felipe raised his brows and shrugged, asking for the whole story.

Diego laughed ruefully. "Some days I wonder if Victoria is in love with Zorro--or if she merely wants to _be_ him," he answered, carefully keeping his voice down.

Felipe motioned him to continue.

"Victoria subdued two of the horse thieves. Yes, really. The first she shot and the second she clubbed over the head with the pistol. I think...she might have saved me this time."

Felipe smirked a little and signed, "Not very ladylike."

Diego felt his breath catch. "On the contrary. I found it...magnificent."

Felipe looked dubious.

"You've seen her arguing with the alcalde...or in the tavern speaking to the crowd or making a request to the caballeros."

Felipe shrugged but conceded that she was "very pretty."

"Pretty? She is--" Diego rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Never mind. Perhaps you're too young." He took a swallow of the tea. Felipe, who had brought the pot, refilled the cup. "Anyway. It is time for me to start working on my strength. I am not in fighting form."

"You do that," Felipe protested after he put the pot down.

"Not nearly enough, believe me."

"Well...not today," Felipe leaned over him in a way that was perhaps meant to be intimidating. "Today you are resting. Tomorrow, too."

Z

Felipe quickly finished with Diego's books on law, history, and philosophy of government, and Diego began calling in favors and borrowing books from friends. Success here was moderate, since no one except Ignacio had a library even half as good as the de le Vegas. Fortunately, rescuing the alcalde and his party from Alonzo's trap was worth--well, not exactly goodwill, not from Ignacio--nor graciousness, either, since he barely concealed his amusement at the idea of Diego's plan to make his little pet a lawyer--perhaps the word was 'cooperation.'

Ironically, while Diego found the study of law satisfying and reassuring, Felipe seemed to find it neither. Laws that were reasonable had always seemed an opportunity--within the limits of what was permitted and what was not lay a wide range of choices. The law protected even as it restricted, and a clever man paying attention to the details could use it as a very effective shield.

On the other hand, knowing exactly what the unjust laws _were_ made it that much easier to break them without regret.

Felipe, though, seemed to take the law personally, and each example of unfairness he encountered seemed to make him more resentful. Diego wasn't concerned until he came across a pile of short essays tucked into a history book in the library. They were similar in format and organization to Diego's _Guardian_ editorials, but there was no question that the style and sentiments were Felipe's. Diego settled himself on the parlor settee and read them through with growing dread.

The purpose of the current Spanish government was to exploit and control powerless people for the convenience of the powerful. Laws did not protect the innocent, protect morality, or enforce justice, they existed for the convenience of the king. A great deal of evidence suggested that incompetence was not only tolerated but encouraged. As for the king himself, his inability to govern at all was irrelevant, since he seemed to have no interest in trying....

Diego was so agitated he forgot to conceal the remnants of his limp as he hurried down to the cave where Felipe was feeding Toronado. Diego sat at the worktable, the essays piled neatly in front of him, watching Felipe working. He marveled at the child he had raised and wondered how on earth he hadn't seen this coming.

Felipe watched Diego out of the corner of his eye, but finished with the horse before coming to sit down on the stool on the other side of the table. "You're angry," he signed.

"No," Diego answered. "If you thought I would be you would have hidden them better."

Felipe swallowed and said aloud, "Then what's wrong?"

"I'm...having a hard time understanding. I don't know where all this anger came from. You didn't learn it from me."

Sighing, Felipe propped his elbows on the table and slouched forward. "Justice...according to every representative of the king to ever set foot in this territory...justice is putting Zorro in front of a firing squad."

"So...this is personal then? All of this," Diego flicked the pages with his fingers, "is because of me."

Felipe shook his head, but it was half a minute before he'd assembled the words to answer. "I was surprised, you know? When I actually read the laws? They were so capricious and unfair and ugly and...and I should not have been surprised, because I'd lived everyday knowing that the biggest threat to...to every good thing in the world _was_ the law...not criminals or bad weather or even ignorance. The law...."

"Felipe--"

"The colonies--the people here, Diego, we are just property, a method to enrich the crown, while the government misgoverns Spain so badly it only survives because it is a parasite on us--" Something in Diego's expression brought him up short, and he sputtered to silence.

Diego, his heart sinking, dropped his eyes to follow the grain of the wooden table. "And the nobility?" he whispered.

Felipe surged to his feet, hands flashing. "No. Never. Don't think that."

"Listening to you, how can I not wonder--"

"No! It was you who taught me about responsibility and duty. You." Felipe pressed his palms to his face for a moment, then continued, speaking, "You have never failed your responsibility. You have never abused your power. You have repaid every loyalty. But. But. But not everybody is you, and there is no way to compel those with power to do their duty."

A long, breathless silence hung between them.

Felipe said, "I'm not a revolutionary."

"No, of course not. I never thought it."

"Good. Because I. You know I would never. You know that."

Diego nodded. "I know that."

Felipe sat back down and put his hands on the table.

Diego sighed. "No system of government is perfect. Not in practice. Democracy has its own pitfalls, as out neighbors to the east have shown us. Even the best intentioned....I don't think a system could be _both_ completely fair and completely competent. And there is always a risk that those in power will abuse that power for their own gain. In any system."

"I can't dispute that," Felipe whispered. "But even you must admit that some _systems_ are worse than others."

Diego found he could not actually say the words, so he only nodded.

Felipe held out his hand. Slowly, Diego tidied the edges of the pile and picked it up. "I will have your word that these--and any more like them--remain here in the cave. I have put us all in enough danger without having openly seditious essays in the house."

"I promise, Diego."

Diego passed the pile over.

Two weeks later when the next Royal Emissary claimed the de le Vega estate as property of the Crown, Diego comforted himself that at least Resendo wouldn't stumble across the damning evidence. Give how badly everything else was going, this one small success was cause for inward celebration.

Meanwhile, Diego tried not to dwell on the irony that Resendo's arrival neatly supported Felipe's point.


	7. The Emissary

**The Emissary **

For most of the last decade, Alta California had been subject to a long parade of officials who were cruel, criminally incompetent, corrupt or all three: military commanders, lieutenant governors, alcaldes, royal emissaries, tax collectors....Even with such illustrious company, though, Alejandro thought this Gilberto Resendo stood out. He seemed to have no scruples, no pity, and no respect for either God or man.

Alejandro would have been more confident of the people's ability to protect themselves from Emissary Resendo if he had some idea what exactly the man wanted. As it was, his behavior was brutal and destructive, but erratic. The odd game he was playing with Alcalde de Soto was cruel and pointless. Publically humiliating and challenging the caballeros eroded potential allies. Evicting Alejandro's own family from their home and then giving it back a couple of days later made him look frankly foolish. All these unsubtle acts seemed oddly random. There was no plan or goal Alejandro could detect. Judging from his actions...it seemed as though Resendo's only goal was to bring as much pain as possible to everyone in the territory, particularly the de le Vega family.

And surely no one would be mad enough to sail from Spain halfway across the world for that.

This latest gambit suggested otherwise. The letter Resendo had arranged for Alejandro to 'find' appeared to be in Diego's own hand, so some trouble had gone into its creation. If the contents hadn't been so wildly absurd....

Alejandro and his son had clearly been carefully and specifically targeted. Could Resendo see them as a particularly dangerous threat? Could he know something of Diego's illegal activities and mysterious resources?

No. If Resendo had had any evidence--or even a credible suspicion--that Diego was in league with radicals or revolutionaries or Zorro, he would simply have denounced him and had him shot. Resendo had the authority to order summary executions. So, no. This attack was not motivated by some worry that Diego was an obstacle to his plans--whatever they were--for the pueblo.

Oh, but the pure malice behind this letter was frightening. The letter appeared to be from Diego to the governor, appealing for help because his father was becoming too senile to manage his own affairs. It was obvious, the grief this was intended to cause. If Alejandro had accepted it as authentic, it would have put a violent rift between them.

The only advantage they seemed to have was that Resendo didn't seem to know his enemies well enough to realize the ploy wouldn't work. Diego, for all his faults (and, honestly, Alejandro wasn't entirely sure what his son's faults actually _were_) could not be called disloyal. Or greedy or cruel, for that matter. Resendo knew them well enough to target them specifically, but not well enough to identify their weaknesses. Thank God.

But this last escape did not mean that he wouldn't try again. He certainly would.

Arson? A poisoned well? There were too many ways a man who had no scruples could make war on the estate.

If the primary target were Diego then at least his weaknesses were less obvious: Felipe. Victoria. The great royal emissary was far to arrogant to notice a servant or a tavern owner, at least not as leverage against a caballero. Everyone in the pueblo knew she could be used against Zorro, but he had already played that card.

Now that he thought about it, though, Alejandro realized that Diego had so many dear friends that Resendo could make a day of it: Sergeant Mendoza, Padre Benitez, Jose Macias, the Neilsons...of all of them, only the priest was untouchable. Sergeant Mendoza was already at Resendo's non-existent mercy, Jose was a poor farmer, the Neilsons were foreigners. Any of them would be helpless against the whim of a Royal Emissary.

He needed to speak to Diego. He returned to the house, but his son wasn't there. Felipe denied any knowledge of where he might be or what he might be doing. This was not the day for a confrontation about their secrets, irksome as it was to be kept in the dark. As urgently as he wanted to be involved in doing something useful.

He hoped Diego was doing something useful.

Restless, he returned to town. Things there had reached a new level of tension. Early that morning Resendo's contingent of Royal Guard had captured Toronado. Everyone was waiting for Zorro to mount a rescue. The peons were circumspect in their eagerness to watch their local hero put this harsh interloper in his place. The other caballeros were, for the most part, watchful. Feelings were running high and if the emissary vented his anger on the villagers when Zorro got the better of him, or if Zorro were--God forbid--to lose this fight, the response from the people might quickly get out of hand.

When the end came--only an hour or so later--it was almost an anticlimax. Zorro fought with Resendo, but on the roof of the cuartel where they couldn't easily be seen. And the end--

Zorro didn't humiliate or restrain the Resendo, he actually killed him. As much of a relief as that was, as much as the worried townspeople were glad, everyone was shocked. Zorro didn't kill. Zorro didn't have to. Zorro didn't believe in it.

The fact that it had been an accident, that Resendo had apparently overreached himself and stumbled on a loose tile on the cuartel roof, hardly eased the shock. Murmuring, the townspeople watched as the Royal Guard collected the body and locked themselves inside the cuarel.

Then de Soto declared it a holiday and the celebration began. Alejandro stayed for a couple of hours, sitting quietly in a corner of the tavern, watching to see if things were likely to get out of hand, waiting for Diego to show up, since he often did after things settled down.

It was dusk when Diego and Felipe finally appeared. It was clear that Diego had been up to something: his eyes were shadowed and his face was pale and he seemed unhappy and distracted. He danced once with Victoria and drank two cups of wine and then suggested they go home.

It was on the way home that he noticed that Felipe was unhappy and worried as well. Alejandro asked him what was wrong, but of course the boy shrugged and shook his head. Clearly, whatever Diego had been doing had not gone well. Also clearly, the death of the emissary had not solved all of their problems. He followed them into the library, wishing he could put off this discussion, but convinced he dare not.

"Diego--" He broke off as his son turned slowly. These last few days seemed to have worn him down. It was tempting to delay showing him the letter, at least until they'd all gotten a good night's sleep, but he couldn't bring himself to hide _this_ from Diego. He drew the letter from his pocket. "There are a number of questions still unanswered. Whatever Gilberto Resendo was doing in Las Angeles, it wasn't the king's business."

Diego scowled. "I should hope not. What he did here--"

"Look. He was trying to destroy us." Alejandro held out the paper.

Diego took it and unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the page. After a moment he gasped and took an actual step backwards. "Father, you can't possibly believe--"

"Certainly not!" Alejandro answered at once. "Not for one moment did I think you wrote that."

Felipe stepped toward Diego, signing worriedly. Diego passed him the letter. Felipe read it, then glanced at Alejandro out of the corner of his eye.

"No," he repeated. "It didn't fool me. Never."

Diego took the letter back. "I don't understand. What would driving a wedge between us accomplish?"

Felipe signed something to Diego.

"I didn't follow that," Alejandro admitted.

"He said that was what Resendo did--sow distrust and resentment."

Alejandro shook his head worriedly. "I hope his plans died with him. We can only guess what he set in motion."

Z

After Diego and his father retired, Felipe retrieved the cactus tea Diego had refused earlier and warmed it up with hot water from the kitchen. He found Diego at the desk in his sitting room cutting the blood-stiffened bandage off his arm. He smiled reassuringly at Felipe and reached for the poultice. "Father didn't mention that Zorro had been shot. Perhaps no one realizes."

Felipe put down the cup and sarcastically signed, "Lucky for us."

"I'm sorry," Diego said patiently. "The Royal Guard are better shots than Mendoza's men."

Felipe took the roll of muslin from him and began to wrap the wounded arm. His fingers fumbled badly and he nearly dropped the bandage. Diego watched him thoughtfully as Felipe finished and tied it off.

"You've been jumpy since we took the hacienda back from Resendo, Felipe."

He shrugged and handed Diego the tea.

Diego put it down. "Felipe, did something happen while the emissary was here?"

It was a stupid question and didn't deserve an answer. Felipe pointed at the cup.

Diego ignored him. "What did Resendo and the lieutenant do while they were here? What happened?"

As quickly as possible, Felipe answered, "They drank the wine. They walked around in dirty boots. They broke some things."

"I'm sure I broke more during the fight."

"He found your paintings. He took them out and burned them."

"Not--not the ones of Victoria."

Felipe shook his head. All the pictures of Victoria were kept in the cave. To have Diego found pining for her would be awkward to say the least. "I'm sorry."

Diego quelled his temper. "I can make more paintings, Felipe. I'm asking if he hurt you."

Felipe lifted his chin and reminded Diego that he had seen what had happened.

"I saw him shout at you. I saw him shove you and grab you. I'm asking if--if anything worse happened."

Felipe shrugged. "Not worse."

Diego closed his eyes briefly. "What about Maria? Constanza? Martina?"

"You saw what happened to your garden?" Felipe asked. A couple of guardsmen had walked their horses through the test garden, letting the animals snack on some of the young plants they hadn't trampled. "Martina yelled at them. She was hit."

"Nothing else? Any of you?"

"No. I promise."

Diego closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said. It sounded almost like a prayer.

Felipe started to reach for the tea and stopped. "It's strange," he signed. "Resendo took the art outside and burned it himself, but he was very angry about the garden and the floors. I don't understand."

"That _is _strange" Diego agreed. "My painting isn't that bad."

"Not funny," Felipe signed sourly.

"No, of course not. But the more we find out about this man....the idea that we left all of you here at the house with him suddenly seems like a very poor idea."

"I was watching," Felipe answered.

"And you're all right, which is more important." He took the tea and drained the cup. "Satisfied?"

Felipe fetched his nightshirt and handed it to him. Diego made a show of obediently changing and getting into bed. Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Felipe took the dirty cup and left.

The next day de Soto declared a holiday in the pueblo. Probably he was still sleeping off the effects of his party, which Diego said he found tasteless: Celebrating a death, surely that was almost as great a sin as the killing...or carrying a bitter hatred for a man who was dead.

Two men had already died fighting Zorro: Luis Ramone and the outlaw Saragosa, and Diego had grieved both times. Although Diego spent the day working--keeping himself busy--Felipe was sure he was suffering over Resendo's death too. It would have been better if Diego had rested that wounded arm, but he would have none of it. Felipe tried to get him to relax and then to talk and then finally to go speak to Father Benitez, but Diego only patted Felipe's shoulder and told him not to worry.

The next morning word came that there had been a terrible mistake and Resendo was still alive.

The vaqueros and the garrison soldiers (who rarely agreed on much) both wondered if witchcraft or demons might be involved. There was a strange women with him--she might be a witch.

Felipe's first response was relief: one less death for Diego to unjustly blame himself for, one less crime against Zorro in the eyes of the law.

His second response was a flash of regret that Felipe had not killed Resendo himself when he'd had the chance. He'd had weapons and was using them to distract the Royal Guard while Zorro made his escape. It would have been the work of a moment to put a musket ball into Gilberto Resendo, and all their problems would have ended then.

It lasted only a moment. Diego would be horrified if he found out that Felipe had thinking of cold blooded murder. The padre _would _be horrified at Felipe's next confession. Would he have to confess in detail, or did this count as 'wrath' and 'being tempted to violence?'

Resendo announced that he was willing to offer a truce to Zorro and called for a meeting outside of town. Felipe was disgusted that he would try something so crude and obvious. He was more disgusted that Diego was clearly going to take the offer.

"It's a trap!" Felipe gestured broadly. "You can't go. This is crazy."

"Of course it's a trap. But I'm not going to discover what his game is without springing it."

"On his terms? While you're wounded? It's mad to do this."

"Resendo is wounded as well," Diego answered. He seemed to think he was being reasonable.

"Don't go."

"While we are ignorant about his strategy or goals, we are at a disadvantage, I must--"

"Let him stew in the cuertel, wondering about _your _goals." Felipe argued while he rebound Diego's arm. He argued the whole time Zorro was dressing. He argued while saddling Toronado (which he briefly threatened not to do at all, but Diego pointed out that having to lift thirty pounds of tack would do his arm no good).

An hour and a half after Zorro rode out of the cave, a rider appeared speeding toward the front gate. Don Alejandro frowned and stood up slowly. "Is that Resendo?" he asked. "Better go inside, quickly. Prime a pistol, just in case. Hurry."

Constanza was washing the floor in the dining room. Remembering Diego's worries from the last time the emissary had been here he franticly signed, "Get out of sight. Run," as he turned in the other direction. Constanza dove toward the kitchen.

Felipe was just loading the pistol when Resendo caught him from behind. "Where is de le Vega?" he demanded. Felipe only cursed at him, but since Resendo couldn't read the sign, the meaning was lost. Resendo swung Felipe into the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him, tied his hands and feet with the silken rope that held the draperies, and stormed back toward the front of the house.

Felipe twisted, trying to free his hands. Zorro--had the offer of a truce just been a ruse to get Zorro out of the way while Resendo came to take care of his enemies? Or had he left Zorro to come here?

Diego would never have allowed this. Not if he was alive.

Felipe couldn't reach the ropes with his fingertips and he couldn't slip free. The slick material dug into his wrists, and his shoulders burned with the force of his struggles, but nothing gave.

Resendo was very nearly as good with a sword as Zorro--never mind that he had a small army behind him, never mind that he spoke with the voice of the king, never mind that _death_ could not defeat him--and Alejandro was only 'competent' with a sword. Resendo would kill him.

Felipe kicked out franticly, which brought down small table and did nothing else.

"Felipe!"

Diego. Felipe threw himself sideways with a sob tearing out of his throat. Diego was already dropping down beside him. He looked exhausted and bruised. He hadn't even bothered to comb his hair after taking off the mask.

Felipe pulled back, shaking head desperately.

"Felipe-what--"

_Outside. Go. Run._ But the words caught in his throat, twisting him, choking him.

"Let me--"

Felipe jerked. "Outside. Now." A sob tore free. "Your father--"

Diego was already running.

Felipe sagged against the floor, his eyes drifting closed and releasing the tears that had been stuck before.

Diego might well have gone outside to find his father already dead.

Felipe struggled against his bonds again, his eyes on the doorway, wondering who would come, afraid that it would be Resendo.

It was Don Alejandro. He was bleeding from cuts on his arms, his legs. Too many: Resendo had played with him. Red spattered the carpet as he turned Felipe over and began to tug at the rope. After a long, terrible minute, he cursed and stormed around the corner into his office, returning with a dagger he used to saw at the ropes. "Diego is fighting Resendo. If he can hold him off for a few minutes--"

The ropes around Felipe's wrists gave and he reached for the ones binding his ankles. "He's mad, I think," Don Alejandro panted, hacking at the heavy chords, "Resendo. I don't understand." The last of the strands parted and Don Alejandro abandoned the dagger in favor of his dueling pistol and the powder.

In the doorway, Diego's father came to such a swift stop that Felipe nearly tripped over him. Diego and the emissary were caught in a fierce, desperate battle. The adobe walls rang with the force of their blows as they tore at one another. "Out of the way, Diego," Don Alejandro said, trying to sight on Resendo."

Diego's sword never faltered. "No, Father. He's _mine_." The anger, the pure spite in his voice--it scarcely sounded like Diego.

Surprisingly, Don Alejandro lowered the pistol and stepped back in confusion. Mouth open, he watched Diego dance behind a glittering wall of steel. It was a beautiful sight, even to Felipe who had seen it many times. But Don Alejandro had never seen it before. "He's magnificent," he gasped. "Felipe! Where did he learn to fight like that?"

Felipe couldn't even begin to answer.

Diego was angrier than Felipe had ever seen him, but he was controlling it. His attacks weren't wild, his defense was a shimmering waterfall. This was right. Resendo was good, but Diego was better. Even tired, even wounded, he could take him.

On the next pass they swung around and Diego's right arm turned toward them. The bullet wound in his arm had opened, staining the white linen shirt with a patch of red. "Dear God, he's been hit." Don Alejandro started to step forward, but Felipe caught him. Closer, they could only be a dangerous distraction.

And then suddenly the clash of steel sang wrong, and Resendo's sword was flying, and Resendo himself was awkwardly on his arse in the dust. Diego kicked the fallen sword away. "This is finished," he said.

Resendo glared spitefully up at him. "Go ahead. Kill me."

Diego ground his teeth. "Murder is a coward's solution." He sounded like he was reminding himself.

Resendo laughed. "Do you believe that? Really? I once told our father that you have much to learn about the world."

"Our father?"

Smiling, still so spiteful, Resendo replied, "That's right, Diego. You're my brother."

Don Alejandro had been right. Resendo was insane. As though anyone would believe Alejandro de le Vega had left the countryside littered with bastards! The pure madness of it made Felipe's breath catch.

"Brother?" Diego nearly laughed. "This is absurd."

"It's true." The woman's voice, cracking through the silent courtyard was so unexpected that everyone turned. A well-dressed matron stood at the main gate, flanked by two guardsmen. "What Gilberto says is true. I am Inez Resendo."

Don Alejandro took a step toward her and stumbled. He would have fallen if Felipe hadn't caught his arm. He looked positively ill. "Inez Resendo," he whispered.

"My mother," Resendo said. "The woman who raised me after you tossed me away."

"No," Don Alejandro whispered. "No. No."

"He was born two minutes before Diego. He is the true heir to your property."

Don Alejandro drew himself up. "I don't know who you are, Gilberto Resendo, and I also don't know what lies this woman has told you. If you had been my son, no power on earth could have taken you away from me."

Impatiently, Diego snapped, "If he had been your son, he would not have tried to kill you."

The woman stepped toward Diego. "He is your brother and he can prove it," she said haughtily. "You have a birthmark just there, on your inner thigh, in the shape of a cross"

Diego's sword flashed and Resendo's trousers parted to reveal a crossed stain that Felipe had seen before. Just there. On Diego's own leg.

Don Alejandro stepped back, choking in horror. Diego glanced at his father, and in that moment, Resendo slid a small pistol from his boot.

He pointed it squarely at Diego's head. At this distance even a small pistol couldn't miss. Smirking, Resendo glanced at Don Alejandro. ."You see father? Your precious, perfect, beloved son? Say goodbye, old man. And I have one more secret for you: when I kill Diego de le Vega, I also kill--"

The sound of a shot made them all jump--the front garden had been so quite and they had all been so transfixed on the drama before them. For half a second more, the silence resumed, and then Resendo gasped and fell backwards into the packed earth of the garden.

A small red stain began to spread, turning the brown dirt to red. Someone had shot Resendo.

Alcalde de Soto stepped unsteadily through the side gate. He glanced from the pistol in his hand to the body. "I...I had to do it. Didn't I? It was Resendo or Diego. I had to do it."

"My son!" The matron rushed forward, throwing herself down on the dusty courtyard. "Gilberto, Gilberto!"

Unsteadily, Don Alejandro dropped to the ground as well, reaching out with shaking hands.

Felipe spun and raced for the house. They kept a doctoring bag in the cave: a pouch that would fit in a saddle bag, with a sharp knife and tweezers, whiskey, an iron rod, rolls of bandages.

When Felipe came hurtling back out the front door, Resendo's body was motionless and abandoned, while Diego and the alcalde bodily held Don Alejandro back from the woman.

Felipe let the strap slide from his fingers. He looked down at the body, the brother--maybe the brother--who had been stolen from Diego. The eyes were open and staring blankly at the sky.

Felipe went back into the house for a blanket. When he returned with it, Diego had settled his father on a bench under the hanging geraniums. He had his hands on Don Alejandro's shoulders, as though he were afraid he would try to escape.

The two soldiers were in the corner giving one another anxious looks as they stood guard over the weeping matron.

De Soto had gone back to looking at his pistol. "I've killed before," he said dully. "In battle. And I've presided over hangings." He looked down at Felipe, not really seeing him. "It's not the same, shooting a man in the back. But it was either him or Diego."

Felipe handed him one end of the blanket and signed, "Help me." Together they wrapped the body.

The next argument began just as they finished. The matron demanded the body. Don Alejandro exploded from his seat, pushing Diego aside, cursing and threatening her. She had stolen his son in life, and by God, she'd not have him in death.

The two soldiers protested; Resendo was their commander, their responsibility. It was de Soto who stepped between them all, shaking his head. "We can take the body to the mission," he said calmly. "Neutral ground, surely, and appropriate. No, Don Alejandro, you cannot keep him here. After yesterday--we cannot simply announce that the emissary is dead and not produce a body. I think there would be a riot." He appealed to Diego. "You know I'm right."

By the time the body was loaded on a wagon for the short trip into town, the first group of vaqueros was returning from the range. Don Alejandro sent Juan into town to warn the Padre they were coming and then climbed into the wagon to sit with the body. Diego joined him, while the alcalde rode on the seat with Felipe. No one said anything.

Padre Benitez met them in front of the church. He blessed everyone. He quieted the small crowd that was gathering. He signaled several of the mission workers to come forward and carry Gilberto Resendo away.

Diego looked slightly ill. The red stain on his arm was growing no larger, though, which was something.

"I am now reassuming full command of this pueblo." The Alcalde signaled to two of his lancers. "Take his woman away," he said. "She is a confessed kidnapper. Little good it does to arrest her now. Sergeant, report to me in my office. We have much work to do." He sighed. "Don Alejandro...I had no idea he as your son. I am...Allow me to extend my regrets for your loss."

"None of us did," he whispered. His eyes strayed to Diego. "You also saved a son of mine. That I will never forget."

He nodded slowly. "If you will forgive me...I have a compelling need to see Father Benitez."

Almost timidly, Victoria crossed the plaza and approached them. "Diego? Don Alejandro?" She looked at them uncertainly. "What they're saying is true, then? I am sorry. I don't...I have no idea what to say, but you should know that your friends...your friends will stand by you."

Don Alejandro gratefully grasped her hands. "Thank you, Victoria." He swallowed. "I gained a son--and lost him in the same hour...."

Diego was staring toward the church, though the body was long since lost from sight. "I never knew him as a brother, only as an enemy."

"Perhaps if he had had a different life, you could have been proud of him, Diego," Victoria said gently.

And then things started to unravel: Diego's father asked him about the fight with Resendo, and Diego, exhausted and confused, started to tell them all the truth: "Yes, there is something I've been meaning to tell you all for some time. Now would seem an appropriate moment." He glanced around nervously. "Felipe? With your permission?"

Felipe cringed inwardly. This was a bad idea. Everyone had already been through too much, absorbed too many shocks. And doing it here, in the plaza, would only invite disaster. But this was Diego, and he always knew what he was doing, so he didn't object.

"I am. I am." Diego swallowed. Felipe saw the moment he panicked. "I am going to adopt Felipe."

And suddenly Victoria was saying, "Oh, how wonderful," and Diego's father was congratulating them and hugging Felipe and Diego was beaming. Somehow, Felipe managed to blink the shock away and smile shyly. He was supposed to already know about this. He was supposed to be happy about this announcement.

"I have, that is, I have a number of other things to discuss with you all, but now is not the time."

"No," Don Alejandro glanced at the church. "We need to discuss...arrangements." The two of them turned away. Felipe started to follow, but Victoria caught his arm.

"Are you all right?"

Felipe nodded because that was easier than discussing it.

"Felipe--have you eaten today? You look terrible!"

He couldn't remember if he'd eaten or not.

Tucking her arm through his, she led him back to the tavern and into the kitchen. "It has been a terrible day, I'm sure," she said. "Here, have a seat in the corner, and I'll get you some soup." She also set down a wedge of bread and a cup of wine. "You could use this, I think. But just one."

Felipe signed, "Thank you," and reached for the spoon. He hadn't realized that he was hungry.

She sat on the stool across from him and waited patiently while he ate, her hands folded in front of her. It was a little odd: Felipe had rarely seen her sitting still.

"It's still so hard to believe! How could that evil man be Don Alejandro's son? No, don't say anything, just eat. And Diego's brother? Diego, who writes poetry and carries spiders outside so he doesn't have to crush them! He is kind to everyone!"

Felipe shook his head helplessly and took another swallow of soup. He had not a single useful thought on the matter. He could barely think past the idea that they were--somehow--all alive.

"I have to go, I'm afraid. Customers are starting to arrive, and it will be busy tonight. But take your time." She bustled over to the wine rack, removed four bottles, and took them into the main room.

Diego passed her on his way in. "Well," he said, "You are favored. Diego never gets invited to eat in the kitchen." He slid into the seat Victoria had vacated.

Felipe drew a "Z" in the air.

"Ah. Yes. Eleven times, and _yes_, I have kept count."

Felipe shook his head with a look that said that Diego was completely hopeless. Diego smiled back. Then he sighed. "Are you all right?"

Felipe shrugged and signed that he wasn't hurt.

"I'm glad, but I wasn't talking about Resendo. I mean--what I said, before, about adopting you--are you angry? We've never discussed it, and I was presuming a great deal."

Felipe shrugged and put down his spoon to answer. "You had to say something. You couldn't tell them in the middle of town."

Diego shut his mouth sharply. Then he said, very softly, "I mean to say, I never asked you if you wanted to do it. And I should have asked you first." He paused for a moment, and when there as no response, asked, "Do you want to do it?"

Felipe was thoroughly confused. He looked at Diego. "Do you?"

"Do--Yes. Of course. Of course I want to."

Oh. "You never said."

Diego's face fell. "Always," he whispered. "Almost from the beginning. But I couldn't before I came of age, and then, when I returned from Spain...it seemed so much safer to keep you invisible. I had already put you in so much danger. If I made you my son...my discovery would mean your death as well. But I wanted to." He looked away. "This last week your anonymity didn't protect you. The de le Vega name may make you a target, but it can also be a shield. And so, perhaps...that is, I want...."

Felipe thought about that. "You don't have to. I don't need it."

Diego jerked as though Felipe had hit him. At once Felipe realized his mistake and shook his head vigorously. "Listen, listen," he signed urgently, and patted Diego's arm. "I don't...." this was hard to admit, and for a moment Felipe froze, his hands refusing to move. But these were things he'd never told Diego, and it seemed that Diego needed to know them. "I don't remember my parents. Maybe...there is something wrong with me, or maybe I was just too young. But I don't remember them. I remember you. My mother, my father," his hands were shaking, but Felipe went on anyway, "are only you. You are my family. Already my family. I don't need your name."

"I understand," Diego whispered. He swallowed hard and scrubbed the back of his hand across his face. "But I think maybe I do need it. So perhaps I'm asking...if you wouldn't mind?"

Felipe patted his arm again. "Why? Why now?" he asked.

Diego lowered his head. "I almost died twice today, and I can't--"

Felipe's head snapped up and he thrust two fingers in Diego's face.

"Resendo was waiting for me with an explosive charge and a rockslide. If not for the grace of God and Toronado, I would be crushed at the bottom of Diablo Canyon right now." He snorted. "And if not for the grace of God and my 'dear friend' Ignacio I would have been shot shortly thereafter. And I can't...I can't bear to keep delaying everything that is important to me. I can't keep playing this game with Ignacio, though God knows I haven't figured out yet how to end it. I will not allow my father to learn who I am at Zorro's funeral. I will not continue to pretend that Victoria Escalante isn't the love of my life. And I certainly will not continue to pretend that you are not my son."

Felipe rubbed his arm, slowly, up and down. "My family," he signed with his free hand, and, "yes."

Z

Diego took his father and Felipe home late in the afternoon. All of them were exhausted. Diego allowed himself to enlist Felipe and Maria in helping clean and bind his father's cuts, but because the re-opened injury on his arm was caused by a musket ball and not a sword, he and Felipe had to tend it alone. By the time they were finished and clean, Maria had set out dinner: beans and rice and cold chicken. No one had any appetite and there was nothing to say. Don Alejandro wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

Diego supposed he should go to bed and hope tomorrow would be better. He didn't think it would. They were burying Resendo.

Not Resendo. His brother. The thought made his stomach hurt. He hoped there was some possibility it wasn't true. He was restless, he wanted to play the piano or take Toronado out, but it was too late at night to play and Toronado had been ridden hard enough today. He contented himself with currying the horse and tidying the laboratory until he thought he his thoughts calmed enough to let him sleep.

The scream that woke him was wild and unfamiliar, almost inhuman. Diego was standing up before he was fully awake, but as he oriented himself in the pitch darkness he realized he had no idea what or where the problem was.

The only weapons in the room were the practice blades he kept under the bed. As the scream sounded again, he snagged one and bolted--barefoot and in his nightshirt--out the door

He nearly ran into his father, who didn't slow down but only grabbed Diego by the arm and hauled him down the hallway toward the back of the house. Only then did Diego realize where they were going and who was screaming.

Diego threw the door open so violently that he heard the knob crack the plaster. Felipe, only a shadow in the darkness, was sitting up in his narrow bed, screaming. He didn't respond to the bang the door made or to Diego's hand on his shoulder. Tossing the sword into the corner, Diego grabbed him by both arms and shook. "Felipe! It's all right! Wake up!"

Felipe raised his head and took another breath. This time, though, it wasn't another scream but a string of broke sobs.

"Felipe. My God. It's all right."

"Diego, Diego," he wailed again, and it was heartbreaking.

"I'm here. It's all right."

"No," Felipe shoved him back, straining to see Diego's face in the dark. "K-k-k-killed you. Diego!"

"No. No, I'm here. You had a nightmare. A dream. It's all right." Diego ran his hands over Felipe's hair, his shoulders. "I'm fine. I'm here."

Finally, finally, Felipe sagged against him, clinging.

Diego sighed. "That's right. I'm right here." He glanced at the door, unable to discern his father's expression in the darkness. "I'm right here."

Diego's father retreated back to the hallway. Diego dearly hoped he wouldn't make a fuss about this now. He couldn't manage both of them. Dear God. This terrible day simply would not end.

Diego could hear his father in the hallway, speaking to Maria. Well. There was nothing to be done for it.

He cradled Felipe's head against his shoulder and whispered, "Can you tell me?"

Felipe only shuddered.

Father returned then. He had a candle and a cup of water. "Here," he said. "It will help."

Diego eased him back and helped him raise the cup. When he'd drained it, Father exchanged it for a damp handkerchief. Felipe wiped his face.

"I'm sorry," he signed with shaking hands.

"Don't apologize. Not for this. You've carried so much weight for so long, it's not such a terrible thing to have it come out."

Felipe wiped his eyes again. "Diego," he whispered.

"I know. It's all right. I promise."

Felipe sighed wretchedly.

"Here. Lie down now. It's all right." He eased Felipe back onto the pillow. "Don't worry. Hmmm? Try to go back to sleep. I'll stay right here for a while."

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

"Don't worry about that," Diego whispered back. He brushed Felipe's hair back. "Just relax."

Diego sat calmly through the long minutes while Felipe's breath evened and deepened. He almost wished it took the boy longer to fall asleep, but all too soon Felipe had left Diego alone with his father. Carefully, softly, Diego stood up and motioned Don Alejandro to precede him out the door.

He did not, of course, go back to his room, but led Diego to the sitting room, where he lit a lamp and settled himself on a chair. "How long?" he asked calmly.

Diego pulled a chair closer and sat down. "The talking is really quite new, but his hearing...since just before I returned from school."

Suddenly, Father looked very old. "And he didn't tell me."

"He was confused and frightened. He didn't know how."

"He managed to tell you!" he said bitterly.

"No. He made a mistake and I caught him. He didn't tell me."

"That should make me feel better, I suppose? That _you_ kept it from me?"

Diego snorted bitterly. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had no idea it would go on so long."

"No doubt."

"Father, this wasn't personal. It was a tactical decision."

Don Alejandro nodded sharply. "Of course. For el Zorro."

Diego's mouth fell open, but nothing came out.

"I saw you fight today, Diego. For the first time I have seen the truth of you. When are you going to admit it? Not in the plaza, you said. Well where, Diego, and when? Who else was Resendo going to kill?"

"All right, _now_. Yes. Zorro." He sighed. "I needed Felipe for Zorro."

Father sat back in his chair and sighed. "Ah. What a spy he must make."

Diego ruefully shook his head. "You cannot imagine how effective he has been, in every way. But I didn't do it for that. Initially, I only wanted to keep him above suspicion. So that if I were caught...."

"If you were caught, it would only be you hanging."

"I'm sorry."

Father shook his head heavily. "Not for doing it, surely. Not for what you've done for all of us. _My_ Diego. You have managed to accomplish so much."

Diego released his breath. It felt like he'd been holding it for six years. "I was following your example. Papa, I can't tell you how badly I wanted you to know--"

"Oh, no Diego. Not my example. You are a far better man than I." He swallowed hard. "When I think of what you've risked, what you've sacrificed. Not just your own desires and plans, but your safety, your dignity." He blinked and reached for a handkerchief, but of course he wasn't carrying one. "I scarcely know what to say. 'Thank you' is not enough, 'I'm proud of you' is inadequate." He laughed sadly. "For years I have nagged you for not fulfilling your potential, but even these last few months I could not--quite--believe that you had _this_ in you. I am so sorry, my son."

"Don't, Papa, please."

He took a deep breath and sat up straight. "Yes. You're right, of course." He wiped a stray tear with the back of his hand. "As terrible as today was, I must remember that I have been blessed; we nearly lost you this afternoon. I have nothing--nothing--to complain about."

"I'm almost disappointed," Diego said, trying to tease. "I've been imaging my dressing down for several years now. I expected it to be quite impressive."

"Ah. Well." Father took a deep breath. "Later perhaps. Right now we have more urgent matters to discuss."

"Oh?" Diego tried to rally, but he was almost afraid of where this might be going.

Mercifully, it was a problem Diego was already aware of: "The other house servants heard Felipe screaming. It will be all over the pueblo by tomorrow."

"And if we are caught trying to conceal it now, it may well bring everything down when the truth finally comes out."

"And eventually it must," Father agreed. "But just now there is so much chaos and worry that people might have little time to dwell on it."

Diego nodded. "The chaos may even provide our explanation. The strain of the situation? A blow to the head? A miracle? As long as we are confused and delighted, I think our friends and neighbors will take their cue from us."

"I don't see a choice, apart from fleeing the territory."

"It's as good a plan as any I've devised so far," Diego admitted wryly. "And truthfully...I'm very glad it's finally happened."

Into the quiet that followed a night bird began to trill. They listened for a while. Father said, "It will not be you adopting Felipe. It will be me."

"No."

"Yes. Fate intended me to have two sons. God gave me two sons. I failed Gilberto unspeakably. What I could not do for him, I will do for Felipe."

Oh. "You don't know...you don't _know_ that Gilberto was my...brother. You have that woman's word for it, but she is clearly mad. A birthmark? It could be faked, or a scar. You don't know."

Father's eyes filled and the tears slipped free unheeded. "Diego, you only needed to look at him. Once you knew...Gilberto had my eyes and your mother's nose. From behind, his build, his strength...he looked so very much like you. And he is the only man I have ever seen who was nearly as good with a sword as you."

My brother. As much as Diego wanted to hope it wasn't true, it was time to accept that there was no explaining this away. He bowed his head in concession.

"That woman stole him from me, from you. She poisoned him and warped him and led him to his death--No, don't ask me right now. I'll tell you why. I promise you. But not tonight.... There is nothing I can do for Gilberto now. But for Felipe? Yes, I can do something."

"He is mine," Diego said gently.

Father gave him a sharp look. "You will not enter into a marriage with Victoria Escalante already a parent. It would be unfair to her."

"Victoria is fond of Felipe. And I will not choose her over him."

"He would have duties as your eldest son. He wouldn't be as free to practice law. Any more than you have been free to become a physician."

With a pang of guilty disappointment, Diego realized that Gilberto had been his _older_ brother. The bulk of the estate would have fallen to him. Diego swallowed.

"He would take precedence over Victoria's children. Which would be a shame, because what Felipe has always wanted from you is certainly not this ranch."

For the first time, Diego hesitated.

"I was to...I was to have _two _sons, Diego. You were meant to have a brother."

"If he agrees." Diego shook his head. "One way or another he will have our name, our protection. I cannot imagine...I simply can not imagine loving a child 'of my own' more than I love him, or that somehow I could possibly do 'better.'"

"No, come to think of it...I cannot imagine what I could possibly have done to be blessed with the two of you. What you have done together, Diego, is nothing short of amazing." He managed a weak smile for only a moment before giving in and dropping his head and hiding his tears behind his hand. "Dear God, Gilberto! That woman! She told him...she told him he was born imperfect and so I cast him aside. He believed I had rejected him. He died believing.... As though for _anything_ I would turn away my son."

Helpless, Diego rose and went to the window. The sky was beginning to grow pale to the east. Tomorrow was coming too quickly, and there was the funeral to bear. And his father's discussion with Felipe. And--somehow--Diego was going to have to talk to Victoria. But for right now, there was nothing he could do, and Diego lowered his head and wept himself. Somewhere outside the night bird stopped singing.


End file.
